Where Everything Ends
by on-the-tardis-sherlocked-girl
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John and Sherlock met again. But this reunion is completely different. Angst, drugs and sad sad love. Slash. A lot of Moran, and a bit of Moriarty too.
1. Year one

WHERE EVERYTHING ENDS

YEAR ONE

After the day at the graveyard, after the funeral, after those few days that have seemed like years since Sherlock's death, John begins to feel nothing. Life goes on as it always had been before Baker Street. He hasn't seen Mrs. Hudson for two months. He doesn't feel her absence. He doesn't miss Sherlock, or the adrenaline. The leg has started to hurt. Don't limp yet. But the stick is always near the door, ready to be used. He started working again. Except that now is no longer a doctor. He has a job at the port. He gets and lifts heavy objects all day. It manages to distract him from all his thoughts. He doesn't even have thoughts anymore. His mind is completely empty. All that matters is getting up in the morning, take a shower, shaving, look almost decent at the mirror before going out, work, eat, going home and sleep. And start all over again. Every day.

Six months pass like this. Between a chest of fish and another. John is not sad, but definitely not happy. His life has become a routine, scheduled actions. Sometimes it goes to the pub and drinks two beers, just to know that he is still human. To know he's not a machine. A machine, like what he had said to Sherlock few minutes before the end. Like what he thought Sherlock was. He had sometimes wondered what would have happened if he hadn't never gone to check on Mrs. Hudson. But what kind of heartless man he would have been if he hadn't done that? He wasn't like Sherlock. But on the other hand, nothing really had happened to Mrs. Hudson. Whenever these kind of questions came to his mind, he found a way to hide them and put them in a corner of his mind. A corner that is full of doubts and sorrow in which he would never go. Blocked by a firmly wall held in place by his own force of will.

At the twelfth month of that life, one day, John hears the bell of his dingy, new apartment ringing.

At first he hated that place, it wasn't Baker Street. There was nothing that reminded him of Sherlock. And he needed to know that Sherlock had been there. That Sherlock had lived. It was his roommate, his best friend for a long time. And he needed something that reminded him that he was the genius who anybody accepts, one of the most intelligent human beings he had ever met that all believed to be a fraud. He hated it because it was always quiet and dark, the sweet sound of the violin that he was used to hear was only a memory of his mind and the sunlight that came in slightly from the windows of Baker Street was a forgotten light. But in the end he got used to it, he would have even missed the silence and the gray light that penetrated from the only dirty window of the living room.

Anyway, John, lost in the movements of everyday life and in his repetitive thoughts, walks to the door and, looking through the peephole, is taken from a grasp at his stomach. The person behind the door is Lestrade. The first question he asks himself is what he is doing here, why? Something had happened to Mrs. Hudson? Something had happened at the Yard? To Lestrade directly maybe. Even the thought that maybe Sherlock was back crosses his mind, but no, that was impossible. He takes a deep breath, his hand on the cold and full of rust door handle, and plucking up his courage he opens the door.

"John." Greg's voice sound so strange and far away after all that time. Like those old songs that you hear after years and you not even remember having ever heard. A small smile appears on Lestrade's face. John doesn't know what to say, is paralyzed. He knew he would never have opened the door. It has never been as strong as he thought. But he has to overcome that.

"Greg. Hey, how are you? What are you doing here? Has something happened? "John knows he seems too worried and probably not too sane. But a visit from Lestrade was one of the few things he really didn't expected. And all the memories were collapsing on him. No. It wasn't supposed to happen. He had avoided. The wall's corner of his mind was going to pieces.

"Fine, John. You? You look tired. "He sighs. "No, nothing happened, don't worry, no need to panic. I passed only to ask if you wanted to come with me down the pub and drink a beer. You know I was here, I finished my turn ten minutes ago, an easy case, and I knew that you lived here so .. Well if you don't feel like we can always put it off. But I haven't seen you so much, I thought you might have liked the idea. "Greg seems nervous, there is no reason, John thinks. He will not say no. After all it's just a beer, the wall could resist, right? Probably not, but being rational, he couldn't definitely say no to Lestrade. Since he asked so nicely. And John does not want to say no.

"Sure. I'd like that. " He gives him a pat on the shoulder, to look more friendly as possible.

"Give me five minutes and I'll be ready, okay?" He smiles, and heads for the room to get something that doesn't smell of fish. He comes back and Lestrade is at the door waiting for him.

"I see you in form, John."

"You know, I'm big and strong now." They chuckle.

"Let's go then."


	2. Year two

YEAR TWO

After that day, John goes out with Lestrade to go to the pub every week. It doesn't matter if one or both are exhausted from work. It doesn't matter if they have other commitments, everything is put off for seeing each other only those two hours a week. They talk about this and that. About Lestrade's wife. About that he doesn't know if they're still together. About problems at the Yard. About Donovan and Anderson, who now no longer go along as before. John discovers that they were almost about to get married but then everything went to air. They talk about John's work. About the pay that is not bad. About all his bones that hurt. About the fact that is too cold and too hot. About rain and sun. One evening they end up even talking about fishing worms. But they never talk about Sherlock. And John is relieved not to have to think about it.

...

"Yesterday I went to the graveyard." John almost chokes in his beer when those five words come out from Lestrade's mouth. It's a year and a half since he stopped thinking completely about Sherlock, about the funeral, and everything else. A year and a half since his emotions have gone, and nothing human was left in him.

"I'm sorry John. I didn't want to. But Mrs. Hudson wanted to drop in and asked me to go with her. Eventually also Sally and Anderson came. Sorry if we didn't call. " Lestrade feels guilty. He's really sorry, but it doesn't matter to John. He didn't have to mention Sherlock. It wasn't in the plans.

"I didn't even think you wanted to come, you never speak of .. and I didn't know whether or not to ask you, finally I just gave up. " He lets go a sigh. And a faint smile, followed by a worried glance at John.

"I.. it doesn't matter. It's all okay. Don't worry. In any way, I would have said no. "

John is destroyed. So few words to destroy him. He knows he would need help. Maybe go back to Ella. No. John has learned to be strong. Hasn't he? He is no longer sure of anything now. He is no longer sure if he is alive or dead. He is no longer sure what is his name. He is no longer sure to have spent all that time with Sherlock. He is no longer sure of anything.

"Really? John .. I didn't want to. I should have tell you. Sorry." Lestrade's voice is pained like the voice of a child who feels guilty after he broke a precious thing and has to apologize to his parents.

"Really. Yes, but I don't get just one thing. "

"What?"

"Donovan. And Anderson. What the hell were they doing in the graveyard? Basically it's all their fault. With what right did they go there? And maybe they even pretended to be sad, I bet Donovan has even dropped a tear, didn't she? "

Anger is growing in him. Those two had no right to mourn the death of Sherlock. For what he cared those two could even be dead and it wouldn't make any difference. But he can't accept this. He rises from his stool and leaves the tip on the counter. John is leaving. Greg doesn't look him in his eyes. John just wants to go. He wants to get out of there, go home, calm down, and try not to cry or to punch something.

"John, please don't go. It's true, they shouldn't have been there, you're right. And you're right about Donovan, but to me they seemed pretty sincere. Don't blame them. We both know that the fault was of.. " Greg lets himself fall against the counter. A hand on his face, and his head shakes.

"Sorry Greg, maybe you shouldn't have told me, okay? This isn't time for .. no. Sorry Greg, I have to go home. The next Friday don't wait for me here, okay? " John leaves. Angry and tired. He doesn't want to talk to Lestrade. He doesn't want to talk to anyone. Greg watches him go, but does nothing to stop him. He knows that it wouldn't help.

...

Another month passes. John hasn't heard Lestrade. He has some missed call on his phone which he never responded to, but nothing more. No insistence, and John's is extremely grateful. Life is restarted as before. Empty and repetitive.

...

It's a morning like any other. John gets up at five o'clock as always. He has breakfast, two biscuits and tea. He goes to the bathroom. The toilet seat is broken. Damn, thinks John, he doesn't really want to repair it. He bends down to see what the problem is, but when he's removing it that slips on his leg. The one that had started to hurt again, but that hadn't never limp. It hurts, and John screams. He drops to the floor, the tablet has also made a cut on his foot falling. It's bleeding. John is used to cuts, he had injured himself many times working. But that kind of cut was so clean and clear. He watches the blood pouring from his foot. The pain disappears for a few seconds. He finds it mesmerizing.

It's slow, and warm. His memories go back of years, and suddenly he remembers a day passed at the mountain with his family, where he had gone and found himself in front of a sunlit stream. He remembers to had put his legs in it and had felt the heat. It had brought to his mind those few times when his mother had picked him up and cuddled. The sensation was the same at that time. He felt the water of the stream on his foot, and his mother's arms around him.

Eventually he recovers. Aware that he must heal the wound. Disinfect it before, of course. But while his mind tells him to stand up, his body shows no signs of movement. He is paralyzed. Doesn't want to get up. Doesn't want to deal with the wound. He doesn't want the blood to go away.

It clings to the sink with one hand, manages to stand up and holds it with two hands. He looks down to the foot, observes the blood and then raises his head slowly. Before him the mirror, the reflection of his face pale and tired. The hair was a bit longer than usual. Has to cut them, he thinks. He washes his face, and raises his head again.

He jumps out of his skin. A pang in his heart. Thousands emotions hit him at once when he finds his mirror image. But it's not the only one. He turns around to check, but there's nothing. Then, slowly, he turns the head. He hopes with all his heart that when he will turn again there'll be just him, but no. It's still there. The other man is still there. Serious, but with a slight smile.

"Liking it, John. The blood? Or do you like the idea of being in danger? Oh, but you know that that can't be considered dangerous. Come on, John. You can fool anyone, but not me. "

That voice, that damned voice. John knows it too well. But it can't be. Sherlock died. Dead. It isn't possible that he's there. In fact, he's not there. He's in the mirror. John wants to look away, but fails. Sherlock is right there. Next to him. Right. Next. To. Him.

After a few seconds he remembers how to breathe. He understands that this is a hallucination. It can't be anything else. He doesn't want to accept it. He hadn't been thinking of Sherlock since that moment when he and Greg had argued. And that was the only time.

The Wall. That wall that protected him for so long. That famous wall that was about to collapse the first time that Lestrade had presented to his door was definitely falling apart all at once. In an instant a thousand images of past life with Sherlock pass like a flash in the mind of John. He feels like he's about to fall. It is too much. Knows he can't stand. He looks away from the mirror, back to the blood of the foot. Thinking of the words that Sherlock had just said.

_"Liking it, John. The blood? Or do you like the idea of being in danger? Oh, but you know that that can't be considered dangerous. Come on, John. You can fool anyone, but not me. "_

What did he mean? John was done with that life.

"Look at me John. Look at me. Don't avoid me. Don't do that. Why did you avoid me all this time? The blood reminded you of me, didn't it? The blood on my face and under my body the day I died. Isn't it like this? JOHN LOOK AT ME! " Sherlock, his reflection, his ghost is screaming against John. His face has the same anger of that evening when he and John were at Kitty Riley's house and Sherlock had screamed at Moriarty to stop. The same fury. And John has never been so scared.

"GO AWAY!" John shouts, and without looking in the mirror again slams the bathroom door and threw himself on the bed. He feel them. The tears that he held for so long are about to leave. He doesn't want to cry. He had learned not to do so. He had learned. Damn him and damn his heart. And his damn subconscious. Why now? Why not a year before? It wasn't because of the blood. No.

John has hands that cover his face. Afraid to see. To look and see that Sherlock is there in front of him. Why was his mind making those kinds of jokes to him? Sherlock would never say such horrible things. Not to John. Not in that way. Sherlock wouldn't have appeared so suddenly. He would never have invaded his privacy that way. Sherlock would never do any of it. Sherlock would have told John that everything was fine. Sherlock couldn't make him feel that way.

Sherlock was dead.

John removes his hands from his eyes. There isn't anyone. Sherlock was gone.

John sighed, cheered with the warmth of his tears still on his cheeks. Maybe it had been just for that night. It would never happened again, right?

John actually hopes 'till evening, when he returns to the bathroom and looks in the mirror. All his hopes are dashed, however. Because there it is, Sherlock. Next to him. Just like that morning.

John is watching him now though. He has no fear. He knows he's only in his mind. He knows he can't harm him. Even Sherlock stares. It's cold. And bitter. John feels observed up to the end of his soul. He doesn't like that feeling. But then, when, with Sherlock he hadn't felt observed? Sherlock always reserved some extra attention when it came to John. And he went crazy.

"Thank you John." Again his voice. Perhaps John wasn't ready for that.

"Thanks for what? Sherlock, you're not real. I'm talking to myself. You're not .. real. I wish you were. But you're not. "

"Thank you for looking at me."

John sighs. He's now almost giving up. To all the emotions that have crushed him during the day, during those two years. Sherlock is now looking with a little bit of sweetness in his eyes. No, not sweetness. Pity. Sherlock feels mercy for him. God, he hates himself now. He doesn't want Sherlock to feel that for him. He never wanted. He had been a soldier. No one should feel pity for him. And it wasn't him the one who died.

"Sherlock, how long have you planned to stay in my mind exactly? I might get tired of you really soon. "

"John, you hurt me like this. Didn't you miss me even a little? " With that phrase Sherlock smiles, rather, grinning. And for a second to John Moriarty's face appears in place of his old roommate. He's sure to have seen him. More tears are coming. Confusion and fear.

"Sherlock. No. Please. Not him. Okay? Not Him."

"Who? Don't beg me. You said that I wasn't real. It's all a reproduction of your mind. "

Why Sherlock is so very quiet? Why doen't he scream like he did before? He would have preferred a shout to his words.

"Nothing .. I .. Sherlock. I don't know if I can hold you in my head. "John is about to cry for real. But he can't do it in front of Sherlock. Even if it's just an image in his head. No. He can't anyway.

"John. You know it all depends on you. I can't do anything." Sherlock disappears. John doesn't understand. Why does he go away? He has so many questions. Why does he go away?

He goes back to his room, tosses on the bed and falls asleep after hours of crying.

After that day John sees Sherlock everywhere. But always when there is a mirror, or something that reflects it too. He understands that he can't speak to him in public. It begins to bear all the deductions that Sherlock does in his head, and all the comments. And so it goes until two years have passed since his death, and John decides to go to the graveyard. For a visit to his grave.


	3. Year three

YEAR THREE

Three years exactly. Three, absurd, ugly, empty, sad years. Without him.

John leaves the house, takes the first taxi he sees and goes to the graveyard. That was the first after that day he cried for his death. After the day he asked him one last miracle. Don't be dead.

More or less the request had been answered, at least in his head. John was also grateful that at the cemetery there was nothing that could so clearly reflect the image of Sherlock to appear with him there. He wouldn't stand that. How could he?

There it is. Black and clean. The grave. He remembered everything, although he hadn't gone there for years, and only once in anyway. There are flowers. Fairly new. He wonders who put them. Maybe Mrs. Hudson. Perhaps only a crazy fan that as him believed that Sherlock was not at all a fraud.

He doesn't know why he's there. The idea of going there had not even touched the mind in all that time. Even when Sherlock had reappeared in the form of vision.

In the recent days it was as if all the mirrors were multiplied. The presence of Sherlock was present everywhere now. And when he wasn't there in some way he missed him, John was becoming dependent on the same projected images from his mind. He missed him, but not now.

He feels guilty. Still, as always, he can't feel anything. He doesn't cry, doesn't suffer. The same question asked three years ago continues to invade his mind. One more miracle. Don't be dead. One more miracle. One, just one.

Even when he sees Sherlock in his visions he does not suffer, but he was convinced it was only because it was as if he was there, and in a certain sense that compensated for the pain.

But no, he can't really prove anything, except guilt over the void in his heart. Nothing. The absolute nothing.

"Sentiment, John. You have learned that caring is not an advantage. Don't blame yourself. Blame me. Oh, it's all my fault. John, you'd be a fool not blaming me. "

John looks up suddenly, Sherlock is in front of him. It seems true, it seems so true. His arm moves forward to touch, but just as he had imagined is the air that touches his fingers.

"You .. Sherlock, you should not be here. " The words slide out from his mouth, words spoken through gritted teeth, full of rage.

"It's not me that decides where and when appear. Why don't you ever learn, John? It's not so hard? "

"No.. no. I know I have the control and all of that, but I thought it worked only with mirrors .. and I don't see any mirror here. Maybe I should just go home. I'm talking to the wind, they'll think I'm crazy. "

"You're in a cemetery. In front of a grave. Talking to me is the last thing that you'll be called crazy for, John."

Indeed he is right. It could simply be talking to his grave. It might seem a simple discussion of love and farewell.

John turns around and begins to take big steps towards the path. The gravel under his feet is noisy. Even the rain is coming and the sky is gray and slightly dark. John stumbles on a step not seen.

"Damn .." A great fall. It's dirty and his hands are all cut now. He needed nothing else, he thinks sarcastically.

One hand volunteers when his eyes look up.

"Do you need help?". It's a woman with a sweet and gentle face, bright blue eyes and thick dark hair in a ponytail made in a hurry before leaving from home. John takes her hand to pull himself up, without weight, only to accept the kindness.

"Thank you, I'm fine."

"Excuse me, but are you sure? You are .. actually crying." He hasn't even noticed. It touches his cheek with his right hand, the least scarred, and he feels wet to the touch.

"Oh .. Oh. No, I'm fine, really, I'm so sorry. I didn't do it on purpose. I just came to visit a .. colleague. And maybe I did take too much seriously. "

"A colleague? I don't want to be rude, but isn't this reaction a bit too excessive? Usually colleagues hardly know each other .. but maybe you were very close. I can't tell. I'm sorry. "

"Yes. Close. It was a very special fellow. "John does not know why he calls Sherlock colleague. Friend. Best friend. That is what Sherlock was for him. Why hide it when she doesn't even know his story.

"You look really sad though. Come on, I'll buy you a cup of tea, coffee maybe, you choose. "

"Tea .. yeah. Done. Thank you. John Watson, anyways. "John reaches out to shake her hand, but at that moment they both realize they still have their hands joined.

"Mary Morstan." Her name comes out with a laugh and a smile. John is totally fascinated by this woman. Mary .. He hasn't gone out on a date with a woman since a century or so, he thinks. He had never even thought about women. But those eyes and that nose let him thinks that sometimes a bit of company doesn't hurt. And maybe he's just found the right company.

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock's voice rings out behind John. But there's no one when he turns his head.

After that day the ghost of Sherlock disappears.

Mary and John are engaged. They have their own home. He's going to ask her to marry him. He's happy. Sherlock is now a very distant memory. John is happy.


	4. Day zero

DAY 0

Life goes on. John and Mary now are quite happy. Nothing bad happened yet. They fight sometimes but they always make peace. Making peace is the favourite moment for John. Because Mary is always so sweet after those moments. He really loves her. Even if sometimes, when they kiss or when they make love he finds himself thinking of Sherlock. He doesn't know why that happens. He never thought about Sherlock in that way. At least he never let himself think about it. But it happened because sometimes the heat of Mary's body reminded him the heat of the wound, the first time he'd seen Sherlock in the mirror. Every time John says to himself to stop but he can't help it.

It's spring now. John always loved spring. The sky is a little less grey and everything is more green and bright. John doesn't work as a longshoreman anymore, he's a doctor again, in a little clinic, he helps especially kids. He likes his new job. Mary told him about it and he was grateful to her for that.

One night he comes back home from work. He says hi to Mary. They eat and then relax in front of the TV. John decides to go to bed earlier that evening because he's very tired.

He goes to the bathroom. He wants to take a shower before. The water is cold on his skin and he loves the sensation. All so quiet and beautiful. His mind empty, but not like some year ago. Just empty in a nice way. He wants to believe all that peace will last. He really wants to. He's happy for once, even if in the end the leg limp. But he doesn't care so much because of Mary. Mary is his salvation. Everything he didn't have in his life before he has now.

He gets out of the shower. He takes the towel and ties it at his waist. There is a little bit of air coming from the window. It's that magical sensation that John loves, when is cold and hot at the same time.

He goes to the mirror just to tidy himself up when he sees it. Sherlock. Oh no. Not again.

"What the hell!" John almost cries out. But then he calms down. He takes a deep breath.

"Sherlock. I thought by now I wasn't going to see you ever again. Why are y.." His voice breaks. _No, John, don't cry. Not now. Come on you were so used to this.. it's nothing, all right? _Sherlock in the mirror seems so sad, so very sad.

"John, just be careful, okay?" After saying this he disappears like the dust in the wind.

"Careful? Why? WHY CAREFUL? SHERLOCK!" He shouts at the mirror, a fist hits it. Blood again. There was always blood with Sherlock.

Mary comes in.

"What's happened John? Why are you crying? Sweetheart?" She bends down. John on the floor with his head on his knees. Crying like a baby.

"John? Why where you shouting?.. What the hell happened to the mirror? John? Talk to me please!"

Mary is scared. She never saw John like that. And John can't talk. He doesn't even know why he's crying so much. But he couldn't explain to himself what had just happened. What did it mean careful? And he was happy. He hadn't even needed his wall in that period, for protection, but now it was like a hundred knifes just stabbed him in the heart. He doesn't really know why he feels this way.

"John! For god's sake! What's happened?" Now Mary is almost angry at him. She knows really a little of Sherlock. John just told her that he used to live with him and he was dead. That conversation had ended up with a "I'm sorry" and nothing more. So he couldn't tell her that he had had visions all over the time before they met and that he just saw him

"Nothing Mary. Don't worry. I just.. I saw an insect on the mirror and, I don't know, I was so scared I punched it and then I just started to cry. I don't know why. Don't worry okay? I'm just very tired." John just invented the worst excuse ever. Mary would never believe him. And he doesn't like lying to her. She doesn't deserve it.

"An insect? I would say a bat instead. You never reacted so strange at insects. And even if I don't believe you, it's all right. Just stand up, take care of your hand and then go to be okay?" Mary's voice is so sweet and all-understanding. This was one of the reason why John loved her so much.

"Th.. thank you." John stands up. And goes to take care of his hand, just as Mary said. And then he goes to bed. Mary hugs him for a moment and then kiss him. Her lips are so soft, John is so very lucky, he thinks. Then they go to bed and he falls asleep after five minutes, still crying a little.

…

The phone rings. It's two am. John wakes up. Mary is still sleeping. She always had heavy slept.

"Who the hell is at this time?" The number is unknown. John takes the phone, gets up and goes to the living room.

"Hello?" The line goes dead. Who was it? John doesn't really care. It's a stupid joke, that's it. He's about to go back to the room when his phone rings again. It was a text this time. Always unknown number.

_Go to the window. _

"What?" John goes and see. It was dark outside and there was nothing unusual. He frowns. He was to tired to play that stupid game. And it wasn't even funny.

_Stay at the window, John. _

"Oh perfect, now they even know my name." He suspects for a moment is Mycroft. He was the only one that used to these things, but he doesn't even know if Mycroft Holmes is alive or dead.

He goes back to the window. There is a van just in the middle of the street. Is black and very big.

_Now come down. _

"The hell I come down!" He almost shouts. He doesn't even know who is sending him those messages. He can't just go dawn. But what if it was actually Mycroft? It was his style after all. But he wasn't even dressed.

_Come on, you know you want to come down and see what's happening._

Now John is a little bit scared. Who was it?

He decides to put on a white and large shirt and a pair of jeans, just not to be in his pajamas. He goes down but there's nobody there.

All at once he fells somebody arms against his body, tightening him up. A napkin on his mouth. He tries to fight but in just a few seconds he passes out. Everything is dark and quiet. Again.


	5. Day one

DAY ONE

It's dark. And there's a strange smell. Like death and pain. Like hate and sex and fear. Disgusting but enticing at the same time. A smell John never smelled before. He has really no idea where he is. Why he's there. And how. He remembers going in the street and the hand around his mouth. Nothing else.

He tries to move but he finds out that he simply can't. And not just because he's still paralyzed from all that happened in those minutes? Hours? He doesn't know. But because his hands are tied. They handcuffed him, he realizes.

"What the..?" he coughs. He doesn't even have enough voice to speak those three words. He tries and tries again to frees himself but he can't. They're just to thigh. He gives up. Lies there. Almost breathless. Without a thought. He can't help but be exhausted. Why him? Why always him? Thinking about it though, Sherlock's ghost said to him to be careful. But from when does he have to obey a ghost? How could he imagine a thing like this?

The room is not just dim, with an awful smell, is also little and oddly quiet. John never liked silence.

He hears the floor creaks from outside. He hears steps. The door opens. And then closes again. After that only the absolutely dark and silence.

John doesn't dare to talk. Who has just come in? He didn't know. Didn't want to know, to be honest. Ten minutes passes. He hears crooning. And a chair moving. Someone sits down. He can hear the breath. The sing stops. A blinding light turns on. John lets out a plaint. He can't really see anything now.

A voice sniggers. It's almost scary. It's low and rough. Like voices in nightmares.

"I don't think being alive is so boring, you know? Like someone else used to say. It can be so satisfying. Especially when I can do things like these John." He doesn't know whose is that voice. But he finds it terrifying.

"Even if I was very loyal, like you, I had my own ideas. I wasn't _like_ _you. _But my devotion to him was too big. Just too deep and profound. I just had to run away from him, but I didn't. And I became this, and, John. I seriously like what I became. You like what you became instead?" The man adds. John still can't see him in the face but he manages to notice that he's sitting astride on the chair. Holding the back. Like stupid and annoying kids sit when they don't listen to their teacher and just chat.

"Who.." He coughs again. "Who the hell are you? What do you want?" John wastes all his breath with those few words. But they had to be said. Because now he is really worried. Not that he wasn't before.

"Probably you don't like it so much. You're useless without him. And your little wife Mary? How lovely she is. But nobody seriously could believe that you're happy with her. I wonder what's she doing right now. Sleeping maybe? I really would like to see her face when she finds out you're gone. _Sorry Mary, I don't love you anymore I just had to go away. _Will her heart be broken forever? Mh. It wasn't mine the idea anyway. I would write such a more cruel note to say her goodbye." He continues, ignoring completely John.

"Do you see, John? I didn't want this to happen. But I had to. Oh, if I had to. But there's a friend of yours with me. You can't just see him right now. It's not a very good idea."

"What… what are you talking about?" John's eyelids are closing for the weariness and the too much light. He's confused. He feels like he were drunk and dizzy.

Mary. What will happen to Mary? Is she safe? Is she in danger. The note. The not for what? His fake goodbye. Sure. He's grateful to anyone that has been so decent to leave that note and not a brutal message. It's even too obviously by now that this man had to do with Sherlock. And John begins to think that is more probable about Moriarty. Not being able to see him it seems to John like playing hide and seek in the same room and not manage to find him.

It's all dark again suddenly. John sees still the light though. Those circles and bubbles of clear light that can't let you see the dark immediately. It's even all more confused and fuzzy now. Hide and seek has become more like a labyrinth game now. He tries to move. He pulls against the chains. He's like an animal in a cage in captivity. Nothing feels right. He just wants to wake up. Pretending is just all a vivid dream. He wants to wake up, but not near Mary. He wants to wake up in Baker Street. Going in the kitchen. Complaining about heads and hands in the fridge. Wants to hear Sherlock sulking. And then he wants to go to him and hug him tight. As if he's never going to leave anymore. Wants to feel his breath against his own neck. Against his own mouth.

John doesn't even know why he's thinking those things in a moment like this. He never thought about it. But now everything reminds him about Sherlock. And the need of him is strongest than ever. He's got shivers. _Don't John. Not now. Mary. Stay focused on her._

"I'm talking about something very important, John. For your life from now on." The man bursts in an inhumane laughter.

"But now, look at me in the face, would you?" A light turns on. It's an acceptable light now. Two or three seconds and John can see all clearly.

The man is exactly in front of him. Face to face. It's about a few inches and their foreheads could touch. But he's enough distant to see all the features of his face. It's a cruel face. With a contorted mouth. He's sneering. It's the scariest face John's ever seen in his entire life. With a scar right in the left cheek. Two piercing, biting blue eyes. Two big blue eyes like ones of a child. Two enormous eyes of fear. They were mirrors of pure emptiness and grief. Grief despite all the self-confidence he had. John can recognizes himself in those eyes. They were him. Him after Sherlock's death.

His hair is very short but still a mess. Blond and gray. He isn't a man who cares so much about his look. But, in a very single dreadful moment, John can tell that he's a really good-looking man. There's something about his face that captures him. This man, in all his harshness is fascinating. But this thought slides away as it's come.

"Interesting." He says. _Interesting, what?_ John wonders.

The man stands up in a sudden movement. John withdraws within his fear. Then he leaves. Without a word. After about thirty minutes John realizes that he doesn't know yet where he is. The room is quite big. There's a table in the corner. It's a tatty table. With a chair next to it. Probably the one where the man was sitting. John is sitting on a mattress. Just the mattress though. Without sheets or anything. Just a pillow. The handcuffs are tied at some chains, stuck in the wall. His hand are free to move on their own, just not too much. The room is obviously deafen. It seems like a mental hospital room.

John doesn't even have the time to think that the door reopens and tall, skinny figure.

John is **really** hoping to be in a dream now.

The figure is still in the shadow, but after three seconds, the man falls on the ground. In his knees. He's shaking. And now John can see his hair, his face, his body in those really ruined shirt enough open to see his bare chest and dirty trousers. He can see his eyes. Now staring at him. He isn't wearing shoes. He's barefoot. He seems so completely helpless and wretched. He's skinnier than ever. His hair is a little bit shorter but always so curly and dark. His face is pale and the shadows under his eyes are impressive. It's like he hadn't slept in days. Not that it wasn't what he normally did. But now his face is scary and his eyes are the worst part of everything. So light and weak. There are some red streaks around his iris, red like blood. Red like roses and fire.

Sherlock is watching him with such a gaze that John gets shivers.

He. Couldn't. Be. There. He couldn't be alive! Perhaps is just the ghost. Again. But this seems so real. Like the man before. Like Mary. Like Lestrade. Like everyone.

John reaches out a hand for touching. Like the time at the graveyard. His hand is shaking really hard. He's scared of touching him. What if he's real? How could he be? A flash of an image oh Sherlock dead on the sidewalk crash into his mind. It's an awful image. And seeing Sherlock just there, in front of him, on his knees, with that rive look is making him feel more sick than before.

The chains let him go forward Sherlock enough to feel the material of his white shirt under his fingers. It's coarse and real. He's touching it. It's not his imagination. Sherlock _is_ there. Like, in the flesh. For real. The actual Sherlock. John is confused. He's been it for a long time now.

Sherlock glances down. He's about to fall apart. John can see it. And he is too. Completely speechless John squeezes Sherlock's sleeve. Just a little. Just to hold himself up against all the emotions that were overwhelming in that moment.

He feels like a hundred knifes just stabbed him in the chest. All in the same point. At the same time. With no mercy and sympathy. Making him writhe for the pain inside.

While John is still holding Sherlock's sleeve the man with the blue, piercing eyes is back. He stands behind Sherlock with a cocky air. Proud of himself it seemed.

"So, John. Say hi to your old friend." With a sneer on his face he steps over Sherlock. He goes to the chair and sits down. Normally this time.

"Come oooon, John. Don't be rude. It' been three fucking years. Wasn't you missing him? I know you missed him. It's him. Don't worry. You can tell him whatever you want. Even if I don't know if he's really in the condition of answering right now." With that he lets out a laughter and Sherlock totally falls to the ground with a groan.

"Sherlock." John exhales with a low voice. A little more than a whisper. He lets go the sleeve when Sherlock lands in front of him. He's not dead. He's breathing. John is a doctor, he manages to understand it almost immediately.

It's so weird think about Sherlock's dead now. He was already dead. He was.

"Oops." The other chuckles. He seems really amused. As if that was a bloody TV show.

"You don't mind, don't you, if I move him?"

John is looking at him. At his movements. Taking Sherlock under his armpits to drag him near to him, at the feet of the mattress and with nonchalance making him slam on the floor as if he was just a toy about nobody cares. Sherlock is probably passed out and not going to wake up for a while.

"He's gonna stay there for a while. I wish you luck for when he wakes up. You seriously need it John." A smile. Always smiling. That gesture is creeping John out.

"And anyway John, I don't think I introduced myself before. I'm so heedless, so sorry. My name, and maybe you heard about it, is Sebastian Moran. Ring a bell? No? Nothing?"

Only a huge frown on John's forehead.

"What about Iraq? Sniper. One of the best. I wasn't expect you to remember that. But I remember you, doctor Watson. I'm not going to tell all the story. There wouldn't be satisfaction if I told you. Just stay there brooding it over. Let your mind blow to remember it." Moran narrows his eyes to checks trough John expression.

"Jim would be so disappointed in you. Not enough memory in that little and brave brain of yours John. But, as I told you, I'm not him. Luckily for me. And you. Maybe not for your little friend here." His eyes wide open in one second to be back at the normality in a blink.

"John. Talk to me. Tell me something. I don't like being so much at the center of attention."

"Fuck you." The only words John can think about, and he's glad he now has enough voice to say it properly.

"Wuhu, that burns. I'm off now. I've got things more important to do, you're not my priority as you wish so much." His tongue slides on his bottom lip slowly in a grin. John hypnotized.

"Be aware that I'm always watching you." He glances up at the ceiling, and either does John, seeing a camera.

"They'll take you food and water three times a day, I left you a little surprise in the drawer of the table. If you will need it, don't worry, Sherlock here can take care of it. And, for when he's going to wake up. Don't treat him too well. He's not on the side of the angels John." Sebastian steps forward the door, with his long, burly legs in those military trousers. He's about to go outside when John's voice stops him.

"I don't know what you want Moran. Why I am here. And what you have done to Sherlock. But I remember you. And you can bet, I'll manage to get out of here." Anger is the only thing John can feel until the deep of his mind and heart.

Moran doesn't turn around. He stays there for two seconds, John can hear his smile even if the sniper isn't laughing, and he goes away.

…

The door is closed now, and there's just the table's light.

John moves and lays down on the bed. Looking up. Thinking about what just happened in those few hours passed as snap of fingers. He was just last morning he was at home, in Mary's arms, cuddled on the couch, thinking about routine day and work.

Sherlock is mumbling something. John completely forgot about him. He turns his head, not standing up though. He sees him spams on the floor. Awake and agonizing. Sherlock is totally freaking out. John doesn't move a finger. He stays still. He should help him. But that Sherlock is not the same of his mind. That Sherlock is different. Grimacing and twisting next to him.

In anyway, John doesn't really understand why he just paid heed to _his_ Sherlock about being careful. And he doesn't understand how the old Sherlock is alive. From when? Why did he never tell him? It doesn't matter anymore.

All of a sudden the detective stops moving. He's breathing deeply and slowly. He's awake. John knows. He keeps his gaze on Sherlock. Even if in reality is looking into the void.

Sherlock gets up, sits down on the floor.

Now they both are looking one into the other's eyes. It's unbearable for John. Those eyes watching him with all that agony and sorrow. Why Moran told him not to treat him well? It was the bad one now?

"What did he mean?" He asks.

"About what?" His voice so low and strange. It's so different from the voice of the Sherlock of his head. It seems sick and deep.

Probably their first conversation shouldn't be that. Probably John should cry and scream at him because he's still alive. He lied to him, he realizes. John should ask him different things. Right things.

"About you, not being on the side of the angels. About not treating you well. Sherlock.." He wheezes the last word. Talking to him. It's so dreamlike.

Sherlock doesn't answer. He just looks down. Then he delves into his trousers' pockets. A little bag comes out, filled with a white powder. He lets a little of that dust goes on the floor. He bends and snorts everything. After he takes a deep breath and scratches his nose.

John's eyes are wide open. His gaze is shocked. But in the deep he's not too much. He knew Sherlock used drugs once. But he'd thought he had stopped.

Sherlock seems so relaxed now. He almost has the same old look. When they were in their old flat.

"You shouldn't do that." John observes.

"Oh, shut the fuck up, John." He snaps.

"Sorry, what?!"

"I said, John, shut the fuck up." Sherlock's looking at him and he's not going to take his look off.

"Make me." John looks back at him with a gaze of challenge, with a teasing tone. They look at each other for a while when John continues.

"You shouldn't. And you can't tell me to shut up. It's not you the one tied and kidnapped."

"No, John. I'm the junkie one. And I do what I want. And _you_ shouldn't even talk to me. Know this, I'm not good in this situation. I need this. I don't even feel sorry. Why should I, John? Sentiment. Dangerous and useless. I don't care about you. About Moran. Me. It's me the only relevant thing right now. I don't care. And don't talk to me." With this Sherlock goes to the chair and sits down. In silence. Looking at the wall.

"Fine… Fine." He vacillates. "Actually though, it's not fine. Not at all. And I do want to talk to you. I don't care if you don't care. I don't care if you're alive or not. I don't bloody care if you never said to me you never died. I don't care about your stupid drugs. Just tell me your purpose in all this. And why the hell am I here? TELL ME, SHERLOCK!" He yells. That scream reminds him about the night before at the mirror. He always ends up screaming Sherlock. Always. The time he died. Even if he don't. The time in his mind. And now.

Sherlock slowly turns towards him. His mouth is nearly smiling, but his eyes are nearly crying.

"I'm not going to tell you. Or talk to you. But I have to stay here because of Moran, so, if you don't mind, I'll just think and you'll just sleep and eat and think too. Don't think too loud, it's annoying."

Still rude. John doesn't want really to yell at him so he just closes his eyes, and in about twenty minutes he's deadly asleep. And he is until the next day.


	6. Day two

DAY TWO

When he wake up he really doesn't know what time is it. He could have slept for ten hours or two he doesn't know. There are no windows so he can't tell from the light.

He's alone in the room. Sherlock is not there and he's grateful for that. He really isn't in the mood to face him, even because he's still not sure if his old friend is actually alive or not. He's stuck in the oblivion of his own mind for the moment. And doesn't want to go out of it, because outside can be so dangerous and scary.

He's left here. Thinking about what he will do. What Mary is doing. What that Moran is going to do with him. If only he could manage to free himself from those handcuffs. But it's quite impossible and still they're watching him.

It's hot inside the room. He's sweating but with the handcuffs he can't take the shirt off or anything. He hates have. But it's not so a big deal in that moment seen that he's probably going to die or stay there like a prisoner for the rest of his life.

The door opens. A lot of light enters in the room and John put an arm over his eyes to not be blinded. It's not Sherlock. It's not Moran. It's a woman. With heels and a smart dress. Like if she was ready to go out in the evening at some important party. She's holding a plate and a glass of water. She goes into the room without saying a word. She puts the things down right in front of John.

Looks up and smiles. She bends down over John. Face to face. She's touching him with her nose. He can hear her breath. Sweet and soft. And then she is kissing him. Lips on lips. A tender kiss. But there is rage in it. It's about four seconds and she stands up and walk away.

Going away John can catch a glimpse of her leg trough the slit of her dress. He stares at it for a while even if she's already gone. If he was confused before now he really doesn't know what to say. Who was that woman? Despite everything though, that kiss is the best thing that's happened to him since the beginning of this absurd story.

He looks at the plate. There's some chicken and salad in it. No cutlery.

John begins to take the chicken with his left hand. He suddenly realizes how hungry he is and in five minutes the plate is empty. He still doesn't know if that should be his lunch or his dinner. Maybe is like a breakfast. He drinks all the water up. It's fresh and oddly delightful, as he hasn't drunk for days and days.

…

John's about to fall asleep again since is the only thing to do and nothing has happened. And just when he thinks that maybe that day the most terrifying thing would be the kiss he hears voices shouting from outside.

_"YOU CAN'T JUST LET ME GO INSIDE THERE AND LET ME DO THIS, MORAN!" _

_"I CAN DO WHAT I BLOODY WANT AND YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU DON'T!"_

_"FUCK OFF! I DON'T WANT TO."_

_"RIGHT SHERLOCK, SO HOW ARE YOU GOING TO LIVE IN THE, LET'S SAY, NEXT TWO DAYS?!"_

Then the silence. And the door opens.

Sherlock again. Moran behind him. A hand on his shoulder. In the other a black little bag. Sherlock turns around, takes the bag violently and with a pleased grind Moran goes away.

"Don't. I know you're going to ask something. Don't." John hasn't even open his mouth and these words already pisses him off.

Sherlock sits down. Takes everything out of the back. There are a syringe, a lighter, a spoon and again the white dust. He prepares the fix. And in a few minutes his shirt's sleeve is rolled up on his arm and the syringe's needle is already in his veins.

Since the lamp is lighting exactly Sherlock's arm, John can see clearly before the blood and then the substance entering in his system. He can feel the heroin flowing through Sherlock. He could feel his sensations from the look on his face. Peace and bliss in him. He seems so relaxed, as if he was in heaven, after the most beautiful orgasm, in a completely harmony.

He now lays sprawled across the chair. Head facing the ceiling. Eyes close. A slight smile of pure calm. John can almost see the tranquility of Sherlock's soul right now. And he doesn't like it.

After a few minutes Sherlock is normal again. Even the color on his cheeks are normal.

"How are you today, John?" He asks with a low voice.

"I thought I couldn't talk." John objects.

"Don't be _stupid_ John, if I ask you a question is obvious you can talk. You were less boring than this once. People change-" he turns slowly towards him "don't they?"

What is he doing, provoking? Proving a point? Was this an insult? Yes, obviously it was. But John knows that's not the same Sherlock. He can say it just for the pits in his arm. Even if he seems really weird. He's not arrogant in the usual way. It's like he's trying to be mean with him.

John narrows his eyes, looking at him.

"Never been better. Sherlock, what do you think? I've been kidnapped and tied at these fucking things. How can I be? Mmh, let me thing. Well, not fine." John is angry at him. Like always. Not even Moran made him feel so angry. It was because Sherlock was the best person he knew and now he was this. And he didn't know anything about him and his like. It makes him angry not knowing and all this ostentation. And what was this thing with the drugs?

"John. Don't be so annoying. I can see you by myself you aren't all right. There's only need to look at you to see that you're not okay. The way you talk. Your voice is raucous. Your eyes red and dead tired. You frown almost every ten seconds for the pain that your mind is trying to send away and you blink more than usual for the fear. You are obviously angry. At me. And disappointed. You thought, when you saw me, that I was in your situation. Imprisoned like you. Or that I was going to save you. Sorry John, I really can't. And I just asked you that question for what will happen in the next hours." He releases all those words in one, but at the end his eyes are oddly actually sorry and sad.

"What are you exactly going to do with me, in the next hours? Sherlock…" Saying this John notices that Sherlock is going towards him. He's on his knees in front of him. John is also on his knees on the mattress but Sherlock is enough tall to equal their height.

They're looking at each other. Sherlock's pupils are still dilated from the heroin. John has no idea how's looking, but he knows is literally drowning into his eyes. In the ocean of his mind. He suddenly remembers how he used to love Sherlock. How he admired him and was always at his side. How he was ready to die for him. How he appreciated those evening in Baker Street when they talked about cases and Sherlock was brilliant and he loved him even more. And now that Sherlock is right there is heart is beating hard and his mind is telling him to touch him. Hug him. Kiss him. Tell him everything is all right, even though he's not the victim in all of this. But he's still. Not daring moving, afraid of breaking that eyes' contact.

Sherlock is looking at him with an intensity which is not used to. He's not sure but for a second he thinks he's seen love in Sherlock's eyes.

"It wasn't my fault. All of this. It's Ji… Moriarty's fault. Like always. You must understand, I didn't want any of these. And Moran just came out of nothing. I hadn't planned all of this." Sherlock admits with a sad and very calm voice. Still looking at John.

"So why are you doing all of this? You don't need it."

"YES I DO!" He snaps on a sudden. Stepping back with his body. Hands on his hair. Is he sobbing?

He turns again towards John, recomposing himself. A single tear drops on his cheek.

"Give me your hand John." It seems like he's begging him. How can John refuse?

He holds out his hand. Sherlock takes hit. The improvise touch makes John shiver through his own body. So different from everybody else's touch. Different from Mary's body. Different from the lips of the woman before. A hundred times so much powerful and deep than anything else. John was touching Sherlock's skin, soft and rough skin. Such a beautiful feeling.

Sherlock looks down when their hands hit. He withdraws for a second but then is still touching John's hand.

Afterwards, without notice Sherlock takes all John's arm and he threads a syringe on his skin. With such a violence that John almost falls down for the pain. Sherlock takes the thing off of him and stares at him with an empty gaze. John is in pure agony on the mattress.

"What the hell was that?!" He cries out looking at Sherlock with such a mad expression.

"Just the thing you're going to suffer for. I'm sorry. I told you were actually fine before."

Sherlock is not looking at John now. He's looking anywhere but John.

"You asshole. You can't even look at me!"

"I DID IT! LET ME GO OUT NOW!" Sherlock shouts out. A voice is coming from outside.

"_Keep dreaming, sweetheart! Hope you two are going to enjoy your time together!"_

"No… no, no, no. MORAN GET ME OUT!"

"_LATERS!"_

Sherlock falls down against the door, covering his face. And John is glad.

"Not so confident now, uhn, Sherlock?" He says eventually.

…

Thirty minutes pass in pure silence, when John begins to feel a strange sensation inside him. His feet start to tingle. Then his legs, his back and his chest. Immediately after his throat is taken from a grasp. He can't breathe. He burns everything deep in him. His bones itch and he is paralysed.

He's trying to say something for help. But his voice is blocked within his vocal cords. Now even his eyes begin to be on fire. He's forced to close them. Then from paralysed he starts to have violent spasms. He can't control his body anymore.

He feels as if he was on hell. All the flames burning him down deep. Teasing his skin and his mind. Dig into him. Taken away from his body all his organs. His lungs and his heart. His heart that his beating too fast and too slow at intervals of a few seconds. He's about to break. All his thoughts are suddenly gone. Feeling like that is feeling like the first months without Sherlock, just letting all the suppressed grief come out all-in-one. It's like the devil dancing between his emotions. Making fun of them.

This overwhelming ache lasts for at least ten minutes. Of John contorting himself, screaming God's name. Then the more absolute calm. In the room. In his body. In his head. He can re-open his eyes. Slowly, paying attention to every ray of light. Indeed, light is devastating for him right now.

He feels something touching his head. It's cold and hard. It's his glass. Full of water apparently. Soft skin barely touching his. A shiver of disgust all over John. The fingers withdraw immediately, but John still drinks everything in one gulp. And he asks for more, stretching out his hand with the glass towards Sherlock. He's thirsty like he's never been. John thinks he will be thirsty forever by now. And this would be his curse because swallowing his throat aches a lot, but he needs water too much for caring.

"It wasn't m-" Sherlock's trying to say it isn't his fault. Bullshit, he thinks.

"Shut up." John interrupts him.

He can feel Sherlock's eyes on his face, on his hand and on his lips drinking the most delightful water of his life. And even if he can't see him, he know Sherlock doesn't really feel guilty. How could he be? And John already started to learn how this new Sherlock works. He doesn't feel guilt, pain, pity or love. He never felt that. And John thinks that is time now to learn from the best for that. Deleting all his emotions. It's better like that. Just try to escape. But for that, he needs to be shrewd enough. He fought a war. He could do this. He hopes he can.

His medical instinct tells him that probably the thing that was inside him wasn't the healthiest in this world.

He clears his throat. "That syringe… What was in that? What is it flowing through my veins now?" He stops. No answer.

"Please." Since he's still momentarily blind he can't see Sherlock's expression.

"I don't know" declares.

"Oh, please" John chuckles bitterly.

"You don't know. Sherlock, seriously, try again." _He's a freaking genius, it's obvious he knows._

"I. Don't. Know. Is that enough clear for you?" Those few words are spoken and John can feels Sherlock's breath on him. Hot and familiar, even if it was the first time they were so close.

"If you want an answer ask Moran. He didn't tell me. And I didn't want to know. I didn't want to do this. But he forced me, or you aren't smart enough even for that? So, I don't know." With this statement his breath and smell vanish.

"Probably some kind of drugs mixed. The only thing I know, John-" Sherlock hisses his name and John feels a thrill of pure pleasure, despite everything, and he's scared of his own body.

"-is that Moran wants to torture you. Make you feel pain. He wants to make your life impossible and insufferable with a few moves. Keeping you here, as much as I know, even forever. Waiting for you to disintegrate. Letting you beg for your life, treating like his own favorite toy. He doesn't want to hurt you, he wants to destroy you inch by inch until your mind will blow and your heart, especially that, will be so fragile to break just with a gentle breath."

Sherlock has never been more serious, although from his little laugh it seems he's joking. But John know he isn't. He's even pretty shocked by all Sherlock just said.

John opens his eyes now. Wide open and desperate for answers

"Sherlock-" John's voice is trembling. He's scared to death right now. He's not used to fear. Usually, in these situations, he's used to adrenaline, not fear. But right now, Sherlock like this is making him want to running away faster than ever.

"-why is Moran doing this? I didn't… I didn't do anything at all. I don't even know why I'm here. Don't play games with me, Sherlock Holmes, just tell me, okay?" He's trying to seem strong and still but his voice's betraying him.

"Moriarty." One word. One name. One shot direct to the most forgotten part of his mind right now.

"Who?" John know perfectly who Moriarty is. Hundreds of questions are crossing his mind. Why? How? What's Moriarty role in all of this? Is he related to Moran? Yeah, obviously. He doesn't know why the only word that came out from his mouth has been who.

"Who, John? Didn't you remember? The consulting criminal. He was going to blow you up. My second best enemy. The man with that extraordinary mind. Clever enough to rip me off. That absolutely brilliant man. Didn't you remember him? What has Mary done to you?"

"Don't even say her name." How to piss John off in less than ten words.

"And yes, I remember him. If you only could stop compliment him. Seen he was the _cruelest_ and _meanest_man the world has ever known. And what I meant was, why Moriarty?" He asks more gently this time.

"Let's not get straightaway at the point. You have time. I really don't feel like talking about this right now." Contest Sherlock.

"Oh, why? Feeling too much guilty?" John knows it's all time wasted with that question, but it's worth trying, at least for being sure Sherlock is always that unfeeling.

With surprise though, Sherlock doesn't answer immediately. He stares at John with big desolate eyes. He scrolls his head and looks down.

"Don't be an idiot. I don't feel guilty. I just don't want to talk about it." After that he goes away from John and stops talking.

…

After some hours the door opens. Again. John is sick of that door. He's sick of that room. And he's sick of Sherlock standing in the corner thinking and thinking.

It's Moran. And the woman of before. The woman always has the plate. With chicken and salad. _OH god, I'm not going to eat that for the rest of my life, aren't I? _He couldn't have stood that.

"Here, for you Sherlock. You can go now." He throws always a little white bag over Sherlock.

"You're free now" He says this singing and goes away.

"Oh, thank god." Sherlock takes what it's his and leaves too.

There are only the woman and John now. The woman bends over John. Again. And like before presses a kiss on John's lips. And leaves.

John doesn't even know who she is. Why does she keep kissing him? He doesn't want to think about that now. He eats all the chicken and all the salad. Drinks his water.

He crouches on his bed. And stays there thinking. About Sherlock, Moran and Moriarty.

The rest of the day, for what he knows, passes really slowly but he ends up falling asleep in the end. He really wants to sleep.

…

He sleeps like a baby actually, until someone is kicking him in the stomach. And the knocks definitely wakes him up.


	7. Day three

DAY THREE

The kicks stop and John looks up. Moran. Smiling and waving his head as if he was listening to a beautiful happy song. The corners of his mouth come down. He's serious now. And John is too. The pain, in anyway, isn't at all like the one of the drugs of the day before.

"Come on! Have some fun. Aren't you enjoying here? I even feed you. I'm a nice abductor after all. I didn't hurt you once! .. Oh, well. Until now." He chuckles. "But you seemed far too calm. I don't like you when you're not confused and frustrated. Although now I'd really like some laughter. Laugh Doctor Watson! LAUGH!" His look is mad now and with a jerk his arm goes to John's belly and tickles with a bit of violence.

John starts to laugh hysterically. That was one of the part of his body where he's always been more ticklish. It's a torture for him, still he's laughing like he's never done for years. He doesn't even remember when was the last time he laughed for real fun. But this wasn't fun. Tears of agony come up to his eyes. He wants to beg Moran to stop but he can't. He's disgusted by his own laugh and voice.

While Moran is having a good time making him suffer delightfully, John's legs start to going literally on their own and the right one kicks Moran right on his knee.

With that Moran cries out and removes his arm withdrawing. John can breathe finally. He's exhausted. Worst awakening ever. But now Moran's eyes are angry and his hand is becoming a fist. Indeed, John can see it coming, an actual violent and annoyed punch right on his face. Far so different from the last punch on his life. Sherlock had been so tender compared with him.

He licks his lips and tastes the blood coming down his hit nose. Not the best sensation in the world but it could be worst in the end. John touches his jaw to check everything's all right with it. A groan escaping from his mouth.

"Have I had enough fun, or do you want to entertain me a little bit more?" Asks John. He knows being so defiant is not the best thing to do, but he can't help himself. Especially when he sees the annoying expression on Moran's face. That doesn't last much though. Because, as always, his smile comes back.

"I think you had enough fun yesterday, haven't you?" Sebastian declares.

"You're insane."

He shakes his head to say no, giggling. "I'm not the insane one in this. I wasn't even before. The insane ones were just like before our eyes, John. Didn't you ever notice?" He bends down to John. He takes his chin with one hand, forcing him looking at him in the eyes. John stares at him.

Moran takes his hand off and stands up, going around the room in little circles.

"Noticed. Noticed what? Who's insane? Sherlock? Who's the other. It's Moriarty, isn't it?" John frowns. Moran raises his head over the ceiling, holding it up with his hands.

"Jim was insane. And so is Sherlock. But I'm the lucky one." He turns to look at John. "Moriarty is dead. Yours is still alive and incredibly dangerous for you. Good luck with that." His smile is different now from the other ones. It's full of amusement, anger, sadness, and something that seems lust.

"What do you mean?" Snaps John afraid of that sneer.

"John, you should believe your pretty lover more."

"He's not my lover." He rolls his eyes. He's not gay for god's sake. At least he thinks. Despite the thoughts that had crossed his mind when Sherlock was with him. "And _what_ do you mean?"

"You are really so boring. Watching Titanic would be funnier. Anyway, what did you think when Sherlock told you it wasn't his fault and he didn't want to do what he had to do? Uhn? It's not a lie. It's because he is forced. Obviously it is his fault a bit, but, you have to understand him, he's a junkie now. Who do you think is the responsible under his behavior, though?"

"So it's you that make him dangerous for me, right?"

"Yes. Exactly. I see you're beginning to understand something."

"And what about Moriarty, then?"

"Not your business." He throws him a kick with that. John has to learn to not talking about it. But he's so curious.

"Sherlock said you're doing this for him. Who's the little lover now, Moran?" John closes his eyes, expecting another kick or punch. But nothing arrives. He reopens his eyes and sees Moran in front of the door, back to John.

"Lunch in one hour, I'll be back." Moran leaves.

…

John is not hungry. And from the last minutes with Moran can understand that Moriarty had a special part in the sniper's life. About Moriarty John knows just that he was dead. He doesn't know how or why or when. He doesn't know, he never asked and Lestrade never told him.

…

One hour passes. Here's the woman. Always in the smart dress and heels. Always bending over him and kisses him. But this time he takes her arm. And doesn't let go when she tries to leaves. They're watching at each other now.

"Stop. Kissing. Me." John hisses. The first times it didn't really bother him but after Moran's visit he's quiet irritable.

She's not talking. Looks down at John's hand gripping her wrist. Looks up to meet John gaze. She's about to cry.

"Oh god. No. Sorry. Don't cry. Please. I don't need even this." By then she's crying like a baby. John releases the grip. He didn't mean to make her cry.

She leaves running. He sighs, without hope. Maybe she was like him. Like Sherlock, forced to do that. But she surely didn't seem like a drug abuser.

…

Some hours pass. Again Sherlock. He enters from the door. Like the day before. This time though without complaining with nobody. Without screaming at Moran. He seems more confident that yesterday. It isn't a good thing.

"Tell me you're not here for the syringe thing." John asks.

Sherlock raises his eyebrow, looking at John.

"I'm afraid yes. Don't worry though, it's different this time."

"And this should make me feel better?"

Sherlock is hidden in the shadow. John can't see him too well. But he can see the thing that's going to be on his arm in a few minutes. He doesn't really know what to think. Is different better or worse?

"No. But I don't know what it is, so I can't know if it's actually worse than yesterday. Painful for sure." Sherlock goes to John. Standing in front of him, looking down and finding himself watching John with a weird feeling of affection. The blond hair of John and his eyes looking up to him reminded him of those days at Baker Street when he spent hours just watching John, to study him. To understand how that man worked. John's always been a mystery to him. And he still is.

John stands up suddenly. Now Sherlock doesn't have to look down so much. Indeed, thanks for the mattress they're at the same height and their gaze is crossing. The deep blue in John's eyes and the piercing blue in Sherlock's. They don't talk. They just stare. Not daring to look away. It's like a challenge, even though it really isn't. It's an exam of their each other thoughts.

"Would you?" Sherlock asks, still looking intensely in John's eyes. He touches his arm. John still.

"Will you go and hide in a corner even today?" An answer that Sherlock hadn't anticipated. He swallows hard. Eventually looking down at his hand with the syringe. Feeling like it's not the right thing to do. Hurting John. But, thinking about it, the most of the hurting part was passed, when he faked his death and didn't come back to John.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John stops him, offering his arm. John is not sure why he's doing it. He doesn't really want to suffer or anything. He didn't go crazy. He wants to help Sherlock doing it. If what Moran said was true, he had to.

But with a scroll of his head John withdraws his arm. He hasn't any reason to do it. It was all Sherlock's fault in any way. It was Sherlock that had drugged him the day before. It was Sherlock that had lied to him. It was Sherlock that isn't strong enough to fight Moran. To fight the drugs and his stupid addictions.

"No." Snaps John. So angry at him right now. Sherlock didn't deserve any of his kindness. Never had, never will.

He moves his arm away, turning around, not wanting to see Sherlock.

"Don't be absurd! It's better like this, if you are calm, than if you refuse. And you also know I have to do this." There's something strange in Sherlock's voice, John notices.

It's like he's joking. Was that all a joke?

"What's so funny?" He argues.

"Nothing is." Sherlock grabs his arm from behind, forcing John to turn with a tug. The grip is strong and John is too weak to come up against it. Indeed he just feels Sherlock's hand wrapped on his forearm. Underneath his chest John can hear loudly his heart beating faster. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. It's an echo on his mind. Pumping in his head.

"Sorry." Sherlock's voice is the last thing he hears because the beating is even louder now.

Sherlock had done it. The substance was into his system now. John didn't even realize how that happened but he falls on the ground pulling his own hair with his hands. His sight goes all white. This is definitely worse than the drug of the day before. One hundred times stronger. Crushing. Overwhelming. Devastating.

Everything is normal but dark for a moment. He closes his eyes and when he reopens them chaos is in front of his eyes. All the colours he knows are fighting under his eyes. And then black and white replace that mess. Again the colours splashed everywhere, like an awful painting. Red is the worst of them all. But the others are as blinding as red.

His heart is still beating fast and loudly, making him agonize at the sound. It seems to him like thousands of drums were playing at the same time at the center of the earth and he was the only one who can hear them. Four beats, every time, exploding in his head like fireworks.

Colours fade away and nothing remains but Sherlock's figure. But it's not the real one. For John's eyes Sherlock is sit in his chair in Baker Street reading a boring book. Nothing unusual in that. He thinks, for a moment, that everything had just been a dream. An horrible dream. A nightmare. He's back at home now.

John sighs in his own vision. Relief exploring his body. He feels like smiling, but right in that moment Sherlock raises his head and there is a scary dog's mouth instead of the lower part of Sherlock's face. Every part of Sherlock's face is now like a dog. A hound, indeed. It's exactly like the hound that he saw when he was drugged by the fog. It's scary and John wants to run away but his feet don't move and he's stuck in the middle of Baker Street's walls.

It's worse than a nightmare that. It's the most hidden part in John's subconscious coming out, trespassing the limit of his sanity. John is in pure agony and pain now, but the hallucinations go on.

The dog is on his feet, dressed like Sherlock, with his blue dressing gown. Snarling as if it was laughing at John.

"Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom." Imitating the sound of his heart bumping, the voice John hears coming out from that thing is Mary's voice. So sweet and soft and clear. Almost whispering. The body of that creature now is Mary's naked body. The hound's face is blur, but John knows it's still there, judging him with those red, atrocious eyes.

Mary's trunk is so thin and so pale. Her breasts is smaller than what John remembered. Her collarbones are prominent compared with the rest of her body. She's losing weight in front of him so fast that John thinks she's about to become just bones and dust. Her legs lengthen. She's very tall. In a moment her legs are so very long she's touching the ceiling, and now they are flexible and like a snake she slithers all around the room.

She's trapping John in a ring of flesh and skin. John is submerged in that weird and terrible appearance. He's shaking so hard. He can feel it. The fear is digging its way on to him, out of him, invading all the room. But when he thinks he's about to collapse Mary's legs pull in in a jerk and now is Sherlock again. In front of him. His face. His body. All Sherlock.

Just one thing is not the same. His eyes are so black and dark. Not his'.

Sherlock falls to the floor on his knees. Gripping at John waist. His hands are everywhere now. Covering John's legs all over again. Seeing Sherlock on his knees makes John thinking about all the dirty things he had always pushed away from his mind, not allowing himself to think of them. Sherlock touching him. Sherlock kissing him. Sherlock tugs hard in his hair, pressing him against his body. Sherlock blowing him off. Sherlock fucking him, getting off on having him.

And for what he knows, Sherlock is now dragging him on the ground with him. His hands still on him. Taking his shirt off. John is now half-naked. But Sherlock is only touching with his hands, nothing more. No lips, no hot, soft tongue, no body against him. Just those cold long fingers tracing circle on his skin.

John is feeling the same thing as he ran with Sherlock. Those hands make him feel the adrenaline up and down his veins. He can feel his blood racing faster on him. The sound of his heart beating even more louder than before. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. He keeps running while he's still standing there. He's falling apart. He can't bear it anymore. He wants to run away from all he's feeling right now, but he simply can't.

Sherlock eyes are still dark and black. John knew those eyes. Knew them too well. The hands touching him are changing. They're cold now. They're burning his skin. Every touch left a little mark on his chest and belly and arms. John is watching the hands' moves very closely.

He looks up. Sherlock is not there. His face is completely vanished. Those arms don't belong to him anymore. They belong to no one. Until, like a ruined screen the image is making its way to appear. And here it is. Black short hair and a deeply insane gaze. A cruel mouth and a mean sneer. John knows that face. Jim Moriarty. Just in front of him. Appearing in his deepest thoughts.

John suppose, in a moment of less confusion, that is the scariest part of his mental journey, but, with his surprise it isn't. The little burning marks are giving him pleasure instead of pain. Those filthy eyes are full of sympathy and they seem tender and fond. The sneer becomes a smooth smile. John finds himself smiling at him too. The hot hands and arms of the most dangerous and dead man ever are around him. Moriarty is hugging him. John feels quiet and peace all over him. Bliss is taking control. He melts inside his arms. Feeling like a baby about to fall asleep.

Jim withdraws softly. He watches him in the eyes. In a second, John sees a glimpse of pure wickedness. But it's all forgotten when Jim places his lips on John's. They are warm. Delicate. Wet from what it tastes like tears. Those tears aren't John's. But neither Moriarty's. The kiss lasts about ten seconds, when Jim takes his evil mouth away and whispers to John's ear.

"Gotcha."

Then he disappears. John is left there. For a few moments the bumping had gone away, but now it's back and John is writhing in a gentle ache.

And the worst part of all of is that everything is so vivid and clear, it's like actually living it. And if it doesn't stop, he thinks he might break apart.

The room is evanescing either. Everything around him is. Even him is evanescing. His mind, his heart, the beat and the pain.

All the colours again in one blinding overwhelming shot and then the darkness.

…

"John! John wake up! For Christ's sake! JOHN!" Sherlock is shaking John from his shoulders. Shaking hard. And John finally opens his eyes, but they go up and roll in the inside. With his eyelids blinking manically and his eyes blank John begins to have convulsions all over and he's not stopping.

…

He wakes up a few hours later. His head aches like never and he can barely move. He takes an hand to his neck and begins to struck it to make it ache less. While he's touching it, his eyes flicks on the other side of the bed, finding Sherlock half asleep, curled up in his legs and the hair all messy. John doesn't really remember what happened, not now anyway.

A little bit of sense of touch came back to his body, and he notices that actually the left arm of Sherlock is on his belly. John takes it away and now he's on his own. He really doesn't remember a thing. He remembers just Sherlock in front of him, looking at him.

"John…" Sherlock sleepy voice comes from his left side. John turns his head slowly, still in pain for his neck.

"John. John!" Sherlock springs up. Yelling, almost of joy. No, not joy. Relief.

"Sherlock, what? What's happened? Sherlock! Calm down!" John is yelling too, for no reason at all.

"I'm calm! How are you feeling, John?" Sherlock could even be calm but his voice is not. Too loud for John.

"Fine. I am… fine. What happened? I don't remem-" Just as he was saying that a flash of hundreds images is exploding under his eyes. He remembers Sherlock, Mary, Moriarty. Everything.

He closes his eyes shivering and shaking. He feels cold all on a sudden. He needs to lay down and clean out his mind. But he can't because Sherlock is shouting, again.

"John! Are you okay? Dear God, I was so worried. You were there looking at me with those frightening eyes, still and without blinking! What happened? I was so worried. And then you passed out for the spams and I didn't know what to do! I had to call Moran! John! Are you okay? Please tell me that you are!" Sherlock is yelling and waving with his arms and eventually he starts shaking John, finishing with a desperate gaze.

"I'm fine, I just had hall-" There's something wrong in this.

"Wait. Were you really worried about me?" John frowns.

"Of course I was! You were nearly dying!" Sherlock answers without thinking.

"Is this mean that the Sherlock I knew, the one I really knew is still there somewhere, caring a bit about me?" John's really hoping.

"Wh-" Sherlock closes his mouth. Then continues. "No. There isn't a Sherlock of before and a Sherlock of now. This is just me. And you know what would happen to me if you died?"

"Oh. Right, it's just for that. Is Moran so scary?"

"Shut up, John."

John chuckles. Even if it isn't really the appropriate moment.

Sherlock laughs too. But it's all about little moments. Then the silence. Sherlock is now at the table, sitting on the chair, elbows on the desk. He looks miserable in that light. John wants to stand up and go to him to comfort him and then shout at him for everything he did. But he can't, for those bloody handcuffs. He's not sure if Sherlock is allow to talk right now, but he tries.

"Why didn't you tell me you were alive, Sherlock?" He sounds like a child telling those words with a begging tone.

"I couldn't."

"Why not? I could have helped you."

"Doing what? You don't know what happened." Sherlock slurs.

"So tell me." John wants to know everything, he has so much to ask him.

"Tell me how you survived. What happened on the roof, before and after. I still can't believe you're here with me, you know? I don't even know how did I manage to accept the fact that you're breathing, walking and talking. I was so confused when I saw you. And when you took my hand. It seemed like the end and the beginning of the world. Of my life." John confesses. And he isn't certain he's saying the right things.

Sherlock turns around, slowly and looking down at the ground. His hair covering his face with its shadow. John can only see his jaw and his lips. Sherlock is breathing really slowly but frantically, as if he was recovering from a long run. His chest is moving. Up and down. His shirt too tight as always. Sherlock's hand closes in a fist and the veins on his half-exposed arm are well seen and they are as if they're going to blow up. Is that anger? Is that sorrow or him not wanting to answer?

"Could you imagine a world without you, John?" Sherlock says, very calmly.

"Could you?"

Sherlock chuckles little laughter of despair.

"Never going to answer right, aren't you?"

"And so you." They don't dare looking at each other. John hopes this little game of questions and answers without a proper reply is going to end soon.

"Could you think about it, though? Because I can't. Living knowing you never existed."

"You wouldn't know."

"It would be terrifying in anyway."

"Terrifying?" Is Sherlock serious? This is the best compliment he received by him so far.

"Yes. Remember, I would have been lost without my blogger." Sherlock raises his head. Their eyes meet and a tear is sliding on his cheek. It's not fake, like the ones Sherlock knew how to do. It was an actual tear. Alone on the emptiness of his emotions.

"Tell me how you survived."

Sherlock dries away the tear with his hand. Then he leans on the chair with the hands joint as he always did.

"I can just tell you that I did it for you. You wouldn't understand anything else. And now, excuse me, but I'm done with this conversation."

He stands up, walks towards the door, opens it and leaves. Leaving alone John, with his own questions and thoughts. He hadn't even have the time to reply at that. For him? How? How if now he was torturing him, probably enjoying it a little, Sherlock, with his experiments, even though he was worried. How could he have done all for him? Die for him? Fake his death for John?

That void left to him is like violence. It's not the pain he is used to. It's like a hole in his thoughts. He wanted Sherlock to tell him. To apologize. To take control of the entire world. Wanted to watch him dance with his cleverness, making him free from all of that, making John trust of him again.

All of that is so wrong. John closes his eyes to push away the frustration.

He's left alone in the room for a while. The woman returns, this time no kisses. But she has cried. All the make-up is a mess, the mascara shed over her cheeks. She goes away quickly, almost running. The meal is different, it's a big plate of potatoes. Just those.

"Lucky me." Says John with a sarcastic voice. And starts to eat.

Finished the dinner he lays down. Trying to sleep. It's the only nice thing he can do. Waiting for someone to wakes him up and making him suffer. He falls asleep and his last thoughts are all about Sherlock and the things he said. It was all for him. And their strange love.


	8. Day four

DAY FOUR

John is running. The wind hitting his face. His body tired and strained. His heart beating faster. He's running through the city, never stopping. The sky has never been more blue, there isn't a cloud. Very odd, but not enough to stop and look up.

All the streets are empty. There aren't people, or cars. Just the road and asphalt. It' hot and the sun seems to aim just at John. The streets are empty, but the houses are not. John can see with the corner of his eye that everybody is at the window, watching him in that strange run against the world and nobody at the same time.

They're all still. Not talking, just observing. John is still running, not knowing it it's ten minute or ten hours that have passed. There's no reason to stop. Suddenly a big, loud and noisy laughter bursts all over around him. Everyone is laughing. It's not a laughter of joy, though. It's an awful, wicked laughter that is penetrating in his ears. It's deafening and it makes John lose control for a second.

But he keeps running. And now everything is just like when he was in the army. The weather hotter, the sight blur, his body more tired and his heart weaker. The people in the houses have vanished. Now it's really all empty. He can hear nothing but his panting breath.

He finds himself running faster and faster. As if he was fleeing by something. By his biggest fear. And chasing his biggest dream. Faster and faster. He closes his eyes. It's the wind that is carrying him now. He doesn't need to see. It's like flying on the water, feeling invincible, but knowing that he can fall in any moment.

There's one wrong thing now. He opens his eyes. He's trapped in a dead-end street. He can't turning back. And he finally stops. His legs stop running. His heart stops beating so fast. His mind is quiet now. Standing still he has to decide what to do next. And the only thing he can do is open the door of the building in front of him and go in.

There are a lot of stairs and he starts to walk. Going up. Until there's a little door. He opens it and takes a step toward the other side of it. Suddenly it's all dark. He can't see anything. Not even his own hands. He doesn't know where he is, if it's a room, if it's big or small, or if he is outside. He begins to walk, without any kind of panic, like if he was walking in his house, in Baker Street, knowing everything on the way. It's all still, 'till he hears someone. Nobody's talking, though. It's just wailing.

The darkness ends. He's on a roof. The sky now is grey, about to rain. John knows that roof. It's the St. Bart's roof. The one where Sherlock jumped off. Why is he there? Where has the sun gone? Was Sherlock there?

All his questions end when he notices the plaint again. He sees a person in front of him, on the edge of the roof. He's turned, so he can't see him too well, but he believes he knows who he is. He reminds John of someone he used to know very well. Until he understands, when the other man turns, still crying like a baby.

It was him. The man was John. Another John. Crying, with two red and blue big eyes and his hands shaking. He's destroyed, inside and out. Now and then he puts his hands on his air with a desperate move and a helpless expression on his face. For the first minutes the real John just watches. Trying to understand why there was another him.

The enigmatic John looks up. Still crying. He's about to speak, but he seems not to managing it. But eventually he talks.

"It's me." His voice trembling through the tears.

"What?"

"You. It's me. It's the you that you've always hidden away. It's me. It's you."

It doesn't make any sense to John, what the other John is saying.

"What do you mean? I don't understand." He never does.

"You can't escape from you. You'll be always end up with me."

John frowns. That doesn't help to understand.

"Why did you stop crying?" The John soaked with tears asks.

"Why didn't you?"

The other John laughs a bit. Still always crying.

"Why did you stop feeling? Why did you stop thinking about it? Why did you hide all your sorrow? Why did you find someone else? Why did you stop loving him? Why did you stop crying, John?"

"I never stopped loving him. What do you want from me? Do you want me suffer over him? He was just a sick bastard without emotions that left me here alone." While he says this he thinks all the contrary. Sherlock was the most brilliant and amazing human being that he ever met even if he left him he still came back because John was important. At least he's convinced. And yes, he never stopped loving him.

"You can stop lying. I'm in your mind. I know what you feel."

"So why did you ask me?"

"For you to admit it."

The conversation ends when the last of them that talked turns over the emptiness of the city. He points at something with his hand. John can't see, but then he notices it. In front of them there's exactly the same building. With a person on the board. It's Sherlock. He's talking at the phone. Like the day he saw him jump.

John run towards the board of the building he's on. The other John is standing exactly in front of Sherlock, same position, same place, but without the phone.

John looks down. There's another him. It's the John that talked to Sherlock the day he died. John can't see all over again. It's too much.

Sherlock's thrown the phone away. He probably just said goodbye to John. He's about to jump. And there it is. He falls. And in the same moment falls even the crying John.

"NO!" John manages to scream.

…

John wakes up, sitting up brutally, covered with sweat and fright. He was just dreaming. That's been the worst of all his nightmares, and the thing that he didn't really liked it was that he remembered everything. From the other John to Sherlock jumping.

He wipes away the sweat… and the tears. _Oh, great, I actually cried._ He thinks bothered. Then he collapses on the bed, relieved that it was all over. After some minutes he sits again, with the legs crossed. The breakfast was in front of him. A glass of milk and three biscuits. That meant it was rather late in the morning. Even if he really doesn't know. He eats and drinks in silence and then waits until the pain-time of the day, sleeping again, but this time without dreaming anything, luckily.

…

"You took me with you in all of this! If you really care about him, why don't you just speak with your lovely, bastard boss?"

"Because I'm not in a better situation than you in all of this, sweetie."

"Stop calling me like that. And why not? You are his favourite little puppet after all. He adores you. You ask him."

"You could just end this, of your own."

"And how?"

"I thought you were the brilliant one."

"Not anymore, thanks to you."

"It's not my fault if you were so gullible at that time."

"Yes, well, who would ever tell that a lovely woman like you is Moriarty sidekick's little assistant? But I don't want to argue now, about how you fooled me. My compliments to you, once again."

"Thank you, sweetie."

"Anyway, I don't understand why you care so much about him."

"I care because you care."

"Don't be an idiot. I don't."

"Oh yes darling, you do. But I can't help him. It's all up to you. Watch him suffer or watch him free."

John is awake now. Opening his eyes in the dark, he sees Sherlock and the woman that usually takes him food standing one in front of the other. Very close.

Sherlock wraps her waist with his left arm, and with the other hand bend her head just a little, pulling her hair. Lips on her ear, whispering something that John doesn't understand. She's startled but then she relaxes and kisses him.

John doesn't believe his eyes. Sherlock is kissing a woman. His lips on her lips, their tongues clearly twisted in a clever and teasing game. Sherlock arm is still on her waist but now he's pulling her closer. Her hands everywhere. He pushes away first, staring at her down on, with angry eyes and his mouth semi-open, shortness of breath for the kiss.

He lets her go. She leaves and he stays there for a moment, then speaks.

"Enjoyed the show?" His voice low and sensual, as if he was still kissing the woman.

"Obviously." John mumbles.

"Obviously? John, I understand you're not at your better shape but it's not you talking right now."

"No, no." He shakes his head. "I meant, obviously you knew I was already awake. Not for the kiss. Bloody hell no, I'd rather hurt myself than watching you kissing someone again."

"Exaggerated reaction John." He stops for a second, looking down, make their eyes meet.

"Are you jealous?" It's a sincere but teasing question.

"Are you kidding?" John chortles annoyed. In fact he didn't really enjoy what he saw. He didn't want Sherlock to kiss that woman. He didn't want Sherlock to kiss any woman. He didn't want Sherlock to kiss or touch anyone actually. Oh damn, he was jealous.

"Who is she, anyway?" John asks, to avoid the topic.

"She's the devil." He smirks.

"Yeah. Don't doubt that. But why were you kissing her?"

"Oh, so that was the real question. Did you listen to our conversation?" He doesn't answer to John's first question though.

"No. Just saw you two kiss."

"Then I don't have to explain. Good." Sherlock is looking around now, pleased with himself.

"Yes you do." John stands up and takes a step but the chains stop him. He forgot about them. Shit.

"Calm down, John."

"Yes, sure, as always, right?" John is angry now. Why nobody ever answers to him? He deserved a little explanation.

Sherlock doesn't talk. John stands on his feet, waiting for him to talk. But he doesn't. So he sits down again, calming himself a bit.

"When are we doing all the drug part?" John snorts. It's been just three days but now is already a routine.

Sherlock stares at him, frowning, because he really didn't expect that question. John is more surprising than the usual now he's kidnapped.

"Soon. Excited?"

"Almost as yesterday." And he remembers the visions, and Sherlock touching him. He shivers and tries to avoid every possible eye-contact with his ex-best friend.

At that Sherlock becomes serious and almost sad, from his face. John presumes he remembered when he'd had the spams and he was in pure panic. Not a very nice thing.

"I'm sorry." John splits out.

"Why should you?"

"I-" He stops to think. It was actually Sherlock's fault. "Don't know. Forget it."

"Okay." Sherlock falls in the deepest of silence after that okay. It's a torture to John.

…

"It's time." Sherlock says suddenly, making John jump for the surprise.

So, that's it. Another drug. Another experiment. Another way to make him suffer. Another way to make him more and more insane every time. He wonders what he has to expect today. Better or worse than yesterday? He really hopes better, even if he knows that Moran is not so kind.

Sherlock opens the drawer of the table. He laughs bitterly for a moment.

"What?" Says John.

"Look how amusing is our friend." Sherlock drags up a box of condoms and a bottle of lubricant.

John makes a disgusting face and then laughs, knowing that it's not really the moment.

Then Sherlock puts away those things and takes a little black bag. When he takes out the contests there are the same thing he use to shoot up. John frowns. Wasn't this the time for _his_ kind of drug? Not Sherlock's. He watches him getting everything ready. The lighter and the spoon, and in the end the syringe is there. John waits to see Sherlock pierce that thing inside him, but instead he stands up and walks towards John.

He sits on his knees, John is in front of him, sit too. They stare at each other with a deep gaze. John is begging him with his eyes not to do it. He knows what it is, he knows what it does. It would be definitely better than anything before but he prefers to suffer than have that pouring in his body.

"S-Sherlock." He says in a quivering whisper.

Sherlock closes his eyes, breathing really slowly, staying still. John looks at him, really worried and scared. He doesn't want that.

"Arm? I swear. It doesn't hurt. I swear." Sherlock promises sweating and shaking. He feels like falling on the ground, his head spinning.

"I don't really want to." John says but still giving him his arm.

"Forget about everything. About Mary and Moran. About the woman of before. Forget that you're trapped here. Forget about all the pain and joy you ever felt. Forget about the past and the future. It's just you, me and this now. Only you and me." They look into each other eyes, Sherlock imploring for trust and John begging for pity.

"You and me." John's words come out from his mouth in a moan, a tear drops from his eye.

"It'll be fine. It'll be wonderful. You'll feel the best sensation you've ever felt. And if now it's just you and me-" he bows his head "if it's just you and me then it'll be only you. You'll be in heaven and hell at the same time and it'll feel great. It will be like leaving everything that's real and going into your own world when the only thing that counts is the bliss you're into. You will be in pure ecstasy and you will hope you're not going to come back from that journey ever again." Everything he says seems like the most beautiful fairy tale John ever heard, because of Sherlock's soft voice and Sherlock's hand tenderly touching him in comfort.

"Seems nice." John has the strength to say.

Sherlock giggles a bit. Not in an amused way, though. He takes John's arm. Puts the lace on his forearm and tightens. With his long pale fingers he holds the syringe, he positions it just on the right place of his arm. Ready to put down. He stays still. They don't move. John doesn't dare even breathing. It seems an eternity. When John is almost relaxed and he lets go all his fears something unexpected happens.

Sherlock pulls away the syringe, throws it over the room.

"I CAN'T! DAMN IT!" He yells, and John is startled.

Sherlock lapses into John lap and legs, covering his head with his hands and crying. Sherlock is crying. John feels the wet tears through his trousers. He's torn.

"I can't. I can't do this to you. John, please." Sherlock mumbles crying properly now.

"It's not your fault." John hushes him gently and caressing his hair.

Why didn't he do it? He was ready. He would do that. For Sherlock. He trusts him. It's all his fault but now it's just John and him, wasn't it?

Sherlock raises his head. His eyes red for the cry. Big and piercing in his. Asking him forgiveness. John could lose himself on those eyes. So familiar and fond. He could drown on the infinity and brilliance of them. He wants to. They stare and John feels the impulse of holding him so hard.

"Let me save you." Sherlock eventually says always staring into his eyes. _Let me save you._ John thinks to have imagined those four words but he didn't.

"Allow me to." John simply answers.

And then they lie down for hours, without saying a word. Without looking at each other. Holding themselves in that ocean of pure pain and relief. John can hear his breath and Sherlock can feel his heart beating. It's all perfect for those moments and John wants to stay like that forever, never letting Sherlock go.

…

_"_Toc toc toc!" A loud voice says, singing. Moran.

The door is open and there's more light now in the room. John and Sherlock weren't asleep so Sherlock immediately stands up, like an animal in a cage, wanting to run away. And taking John with him. Moran goes to the abandoned syringe and takes it.

"Sherlock, you didn't do your homework, did you?" His face is so serious is almost scaring. John hasn't moved yet. Just observed Sherlock jerks away all frightened and at attention.

"I…" He doesn't finish that Moran is punching him in the stomach. Sherlock groans out in pain. Bends over himself. John doesn't do anything to help him, and in a moment he feels very guilty. That was because of him. Because he didn't take the heroin.

"No more magic for you, Holmes."

Sherlock petrifies. He frowns, staring at Moran.

"No, you can't. No!" He cries out.

"Ooh yes, I can. Now get your ass out of here. Now." Moran is so calm. But Sherlock is not. Still, he leaves.

Before leaving he turns towards John, watching him one last time. Their eyes meet. Sherlock's one saying _I'll be back _and John's ones saying _It'll all be fine._

"So, little soldier, it's just you and me now." Moran breaks out.

That phrase reminds John of Sherlock. It was John and Sherlock. Always has been.

"Sod you."

"Don't insult me, John!" He doesn't understand if Moran is actually angry or he's just pretending.

Sebastian clears his throat. "So, Sherlock didn't do his job. Should I do it for him?" He stops.

"Naah, probably it's better like this, with the pain of his loss." He laughs in an evil way.

John looks at him. He still finds him charming and somehow intriguing. He lingers on Moran's smile, now a sneer. It makes him want to grab him and kiss him with violence and anger, making him bleed and suffer for everything he's done. The strangest of the punishment. _What the hell are you thinking about?_ He asks himself, with self-disgust.

"Johnny boy, wasn't this how _he_ used to call you?" Moran snaps, bending his head and staring at John with that smirk that John didn't know, now, if hate or love.


	9. Day five

DAY FIVE

"Tic toc, tic toc, tic toc." Moran's been sitting on the chair for about six hours now. All in silence, throwing some looks at John.

John doesn't dare saying anything. After the Johnny Boy question they hadn't talked. He is just there waiting for the next Moran's move. Moran's long fingers are beating at time with the "tic toc" and it's so annoying John wants to scream out loud and beg him to stop. He has listened to that noise for three hours now. He thinks he could go mad if he didn't stop.

"Do you mind?" John snaps eventually, too stressed out of that gesture.

"Not at all." But still, he keeps beating on the table and saying those two words, now meaningless.

…

Then it comes, the time when Sebastian stops. John was almost used at that voice whispering and he's surprised when it stops. He was ready to suffer that forever. It had become like a sweet lullaby. And Moran's voice is now delicate and known for John's ears, almost like the sound of Sherlock's violin.

"Are you sleeping?" John asks vaguely. Moran is still, head down and eyes closed. He seems like he's asleep.

Moran turns with a jerk towards John.

"Of course not. I'm just thinking."

"All right. Fair enough."

"It's something you should do too, you know, thinking, sometimes."

"Are you and Sherlock together in this "let's offend John's intellect" thing? Because I'm bloody sick of being insulted when _I'm not stupid."_

"When it's like this, what am I thinking right now?" Moran chuckles in disbelief.

"I said I'm not stupid, not that I'm a telepathic."

"Sherlock would know it. Jim would too. See, you're stupid."

"What the fuck?" John frowns. "You are comparing me with two brilliant minds. Well, at least Sherlock. Moriarty was just a damned psycho." John remembers of his vision, when Jim kissed him and gave him a hug full of affection and love, comforting him. _Gotcha._ Damn John, and his bloody mind.

"Don't talk about him like you knew him. Don't. Don't you dare just talking about him okay? He was far too amazing for your little useless brain."

"So what do you want me to say about him? That he was amazing? Oh, yes, I just adore the way he killed people and made them suffer. Just my kind of good person." John mocks him.

Moran stands up and hits the chair away, angry and annoyed with John comment. His eyes are burning in flames of rage.

"Oops." Says John, almost amused.

Moran is now furious, he takes some steps and he's in front of John now. His hand grasping at John shirt in a tight grip. Their faces now really close. John's nose touching his. Moran's small eyes narrowed but penetrating. His upset breath is so cold on the soldier's mouth. John frowns. Scared but curious of what will be his next move, his next words against him, in Moriarty's favour.

Moran leans over, closer now. Their foreheads touching. And their mouths so very close, with a slight movement they could kiss. But John withdraws, just for the idea of them kissing. Jumping back, Moran looks at him and stretches his neck in a slow turn. He stops, swinging left to right with his head.

"Jim was the best thing I had. Sherlock took him away from me. Jim took himself away from me. He never cared about me. Did he? I'll never know. The only thing I know is that when he was with me, he was another person. Still in his psycho way, like you say, but he was kind, and almost sweet. We treated ourselves like we were human." Everything is said with anger but sadness and woe.

"You are human." John hisses, doubting what he's saying.

Sebastian looks up, his eyes are full of tears but none of them have dropped. John holds out his hand and caresses Moran's cheek. With tenderness, that kind of pity he always felt for mean people. He always felt pity for the devil. John knew what all that meant. Being misunderstood and have to behave like something we aren't.

"Don't give me those puppy eyes, Doctor Watson." Moran groans, grasping John's hand. Let it stroke his skin with force, as if he wanted to scratch everything out of his face, his soul.

"I'm not giving you anything, just the truth." John tries to takes his hand back but Moran's still gripping tight. Force him to touch him. He was, actually, human. He certainly had more feelings than Moriarty and Sherlock together. He had just been messed up by Moriarty, hadn't he?

John is sit with his legs apart and bend on the bed. The arm still straight. The hand still on Moran's cheek. Sebastian is on his knees, between John legs. He could be on John in any second. Pushing him down, trap him with his whole body.

He lets go John's hand. Slowly, taking it down with him in an intimate way. He closes his eyes. His hand towards John.

"Jim was human when he was with me. I was human when I was with him. Don't you tell me I'm a normal person. I'm not. How could you say it when I've kidnapped you and reduced to this? How could you just pity me? Do I have to suppose you are not human too?"

"I am. You are. Moriarty was. I presume. We are all human, just different from others. You angry or you crazy doesn't mean you aren't a human being. Everybody has a heart. Some of us in a very deep place, though."

"Sherlock doesn't." Moran answers frank.

"I used to think of that, but no. I'm sure he does too. I hope."

"Why are you being so fucking all-understanding with me? It's disgusting." While he's saying all of this with anger his hands are climbing over all John's body. Touching every single naked part of him.

John's arm is burning under Moran's fingers. It feels, for John, as if ice was stroking him. He burned while Moran was freezing. The sensation was definitely too much, for both. John wants to scream, let himself free from that feeling. He doesn't want Moran to touch him. He'd prefer Moran hit him.

And Sebastian wants to scream against him, begging him to let him go, even if he was him gripping at John's arm. He hates the sympathy in the man's in front of him eyes. But the desire to touch is growing on him. And it isn't because of John. It's because he has felt alone for so much. He had his shags with random men and women but there was something in John that didn't make him feel so miserable and empty. John reminded him of Moriarty, because he thought he was human, because John was so insane to let Moran behaving like he did but still think he's a human.

The emptiness Moran feels every time, John can understand it. He can and he realizes how Moran's feeling just from the way he's touching him. And he's touching him like John always wanted to touch Sherlock. It felt so right and wrong. He always wanted Sherlock to give him everything he wanted, everything he needed. But that wasn't Sherlock, that was Moran.

Moran's hand, anyways is going down. Till the edge of John's shirt. John was tempting him. With his eyes, his body, his veins throbbing underneath, the heat of his blood. He felt so much like when he touched Jim. Always so hot and wanting.

Still, Moran doesn't know that John really doesn't want all of that. He doesn't want Moran to take his shirt off. He doesn't want Moran to lay down on him with anger and irritation. He doesn't want Moran to take his wrists and trapped him until he wants to explode for all the warmth and cold. He doesn't want Moran entirely on him, with a leg between his. He doesn't want that leg brushing against his crotch. He doesn't want that leg to graze his legs so gently but roughly. And most of all he doesn't want to like it. But he does, and Moran isn't stopping.

Moran eyes are down on John's bare chest. They aren't looking at each other. They can't. It would break everything. He can see John's heart beating fast, panic-stricken. Excited. He caresses his belly in little circle, head down, breathing slowly. John can feel his breath on him. Always so cold. It's like Moran doesn't have blood. Doesn't have a heart. Like if he wasn't really human. But no, he was, and it was so clear.

John too, isn't staring. His eyes are looking at the ceiling. He wishes he could end all of this now. But his body is betraying him. Completely. He shivers everywhere and he's so lured to reciprocate the touch and the brushes. It's like a dance where every step is wrong, it's like one trampling on the other's feet in a smooth pain. Every move is a sacrifice of his own sanity. And his body is craving for that.

"Do you want to play?" Moran finally whispers in John's ear, after he's slithered up, rubbing chest against chest. John's mouth open, ready to talk.

"That's what he always said to me. Play. He wanted to play. Every time. Because being human was only playing. And I loved that game. But I hated him. Because when we were human, for _him,_ it was just a stupid game. I always wonder if what he said to feel was a game too or the truth. It better be the truth. It better be." Moran interrupts John. And grabs on his shoulders very hard, his nails on John's skin, and he strokes all his body against John's one intensely, just once.

John stays still, shaking. That stroke has been like flames on him. The heat has grown from his feet to his throat. A wonderful and scary heat. That hit him passionately.

"Why?" John begins, with his voice trembling, even though is mind is sure. "Did he feel something at all for other people who weren't him?" He was provoking Moran, but deeply, he loved to tease him, because he already knew his reactions.

Indeed, Moran throws him a punch. Right on his face. He probably will have a black eye in a few hours, but it was worth the look on Sebastian's face.

"I could tell you exactly what he felt. What he said to me. What I felt every time. I could make you crying out in pain for the pleasure, just from saying to you what he did to me. You'd be calling out my name, begging me to go on. Begging me to playing bad, playing sweet and angry, playing with your heart and with your mind. This was his kind of game. See?"

He makes his little finger slides all over John's body barely touching his hot skin. Making him jump when he reaches the beginning of his pants and he fumbles with the button.

"That's what he did. He could make you jump for urge."

"Oh-" John chuckles a bit. "I begged for so many things, old man, but I will never beg for you doing anything. Well, except letting me go. Maybe."

"Are you trying to be all cold and strong, Doctor Watson? It won't work." Moran is now completely on him. His face close to John's neck. But there's no breath. Just a chilly sensation.

Suddenly John feels something wet on his neck, on his skin. Something rough but so smooth and soft. Moran tongue's tip is touching him. And now he's licking up and down, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. To the contrary of the rest of him, his tongue was hot and warm. It felt so unfamiliar for John. But he could smell his arousal growing on him. God, his mind was blank now, there was just one word that he kept saying: wrong.

Moran's tongue now was drawing on him some weird figure. John didn't really care. It was the most beautiful feeling he had felt in that week. And he could see Moran looking up at him, with a sneer and cruel, amused eyes. His teeth biting his tongue that stops for a moment. He closes his eyes. He seems like he's praying now. Praying for Moriarty to come back. Praying for John to disappear. But he stays and he makes him feel in heaven and hell.

Now John's hand is free from Moran's grip. The soldier places his hand on the sniper's nape. He pulls closer to his chest. Now Sebastian is gently rested on him. Like a baby ready to sleep, waiting for his parents to read him the bed night story.

"He used to treat me like this, let me stay on his chest. In silence. You remind me of him so much. And you're the exact opposite of him. But now your eyes, in the dark are so deep like his. Your voice is gentle like his. He used to tease me too, you know? Why did he die? It's all Sherlock fault. It's all my fault." Now John feels another kind of wet. It's tears. Moran is mourning Jim's death. So he did have feelings.

"I-" John frowns. "I don't understand. Why did you kidnapped me, when it's not my fault. For anything." He asks, whispering, and with a hand he takes Moran's chin to lift his head and watching him in the eyes.

"I wanted Sherlock to watch you suffer. Like I watched Jim died. I wanted him to feel what I felt. Even worse. Definitely worse."

"Oh, good plan. Yeah, very clever." Despite everything, John really thinks that is a good plan if you want someone to feel bad, make them watching suffer the people they love. Right. Why? Sherlock really had sentiments for him? No way. He couldn't. But he wanted to save him. He will save John.

Moran raises. Now is sitting on John's waist. Wrapping him with his legs. He stopped crying. His hands are going up and down on John's hips. Now not so slowly. He pulls John down. He completely controls him. He could, if he wanted.

"I know, Doctor. You know what else Jim used to do?"

"No. What?"

Moran stops John's arms, taking his wrists and pulling them with violence at the sides of his head. He's bend on him.

"He used to give me some great kisses. But I don't know. It would be too much to, place my lips on your lips?"

He bends more on John. Their lips barely touching. They stay like that for a minute. Listening to their own breaths. Hot and cold. John not moving. Moran caressing his hip with his hand, brushing slightly. Then, in a moment, Moran crushes his lips on John's. There's nothing but sweetness in that kiss. There is passion, death love, lust, desire, rage, despair. It's perfect. John now forgot all the kisses he had ever received or gave. There is just that mouth now.

Moran forces on John's mouth, now open. Their tongues immediately touch, rubbing. They're wrapped and there's nothing to stop them now. They keep kissing roughly. Moran thinking just of Jim. How much he missed him, replacing him with John. His hands now on John's arse, gripping hard. And John's hands everywhere on his back. He takes off Sebastian's shirt. Now their both chest are naked. They feel alone and together in the same moment.

They're twisted now, and their tongues are too. It's a wet, odd feeling. They're pouring out all their hopelessness in that kiss. It's everlasting. It's like there's never been an end or a beginning. John feels all hot and now Sebastian is too. All the heat of their anger is coming out. From their breaths and their hands touching everywhere.

"We should stop. You should stop." John manages to say panting, still with Sebastian's mouth on him.

"No, please, Jim. Don't stop. I need you. One more time. Just once more. Please, for me, love." He begs at John. John is frowning under the kiss. But he understands. He had wanted something like that so many times, thinking of Sherlock. So he's returning the kiss, now more than before, still disgusted from what he was doing. But he can't stop. How could he?

Moran's lips now are going on John's ear. He licks everywhere. Covering every part of it with split and his wet tongue. John shivers for the surprise of how much he's enjoying it. And when Moran bites his ear lobe his hands grasp hard on his back. His ears have always been his weakness. And Moran seemed to notice that quite immediately. He keeps licking with ardor for a while, making John feel in a paradise full of demons.

"You'll beg for this. You will." Moran whispers sensually.

"Never." It's the only word John can say.

Even because now Moran moved. His hands on his chest. His tongue making all the way from John's chest to John's waist. It's so sweet. John tastes like tears and sadness. It feels like a dream. Moran's tongue is working on his navel now, with little movements that are driving John insane. He bites his belly.

"Ouch." John groans, wishing his mouth somewhere else now.

Moran's fingers are playing again with John trousers' button and fly. John is sink into oblivion. Without any idea whether he really wants Moran to go on or not. But he doesn't have the time to think, because Moran's hand is now on his crotch, there are just two layers from his naked skin and his evil hand. John's is pulling Sebastian's hair now. Trying to make him stop. Somehow, though, Moran takes that like an incentive to go on.

He undress John from his trousers. They're at his knees now. Moran is sitting just a little lower, on his legs to have complete access to John's groin. His big hand is still stroking his shaft. With strength and without any kind of mercy. But there's still one layer to separate them. John is in pure panic now. Doesn't know what to do. When he feels Moran's tongue on his thighs he bends his back in excitement. He's hard. He's been for a while. But now it hurts. He wants to touch himself so much, so he tries, but the sniper stops him soon enough.

"Oh, doctor, doctor." He giggles a bit, while his mouth is right on his cock, and his liking the fabric, making John gasping.

"This is the right time to beg, I always begged at this time."

"Not in a mil-" Another groan. "-lion years."

"More fun for me then." Moran's takes his head back.

"What?" John looks down at him. Frowning. He couldn't stop now. He would have drove him mad, seriously.

"If you're not going to beg, I'm going to take all the time I need." He raises up, up to his chest, starting to lick one of his nipples. Licking slowly and leaving a wake of his wet split on him. John shakes for a moment. Damn.

"Okay. Okay. _Please._" Moran smirks. All pleased with himself.

"Good choice, Doctor."

"Just because I have no other choice."

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh, you have so many choices. But what it's said it's said."

With that he goes down till John waist. He gives him to licks on his belly, one towards the right's hip and the other towards the left's hip. Making John leaps up.

"Please." He manages to say.

Moran takes his pants down. His shaft jumping out. His pants at his knees now. Moran stares at it for some seconds, almost fascinated by it. Smiling.

"Is it a coincidence, that you two are similar even for this?" He's referring on John's and Jim's dick. And John couldn't care less right now.

Moran's hand wraps it. Giving two strokes, and then a little caress. John's head spinning for pleasure. Finally. He's expecting a normal, still intense handjob, but then he feels Sebastian's tongue on the head. Dammit. The tongue draws little circles, just on the top, and then it goes down and up, so slowly. Moran's covering every part of his dick with his tongue. It's so intimate and great for John's body. But he's still teasing him. And it's too much for John. He can't even hear his heart from the beat too loud.

Eventually he's on Moran's mouth. Completely. He lets out a moan of pleasure and hate. Hate for Moran. For Sherlock. For all the bloody situation. He cries out. A little cry. If that was Moran's game, it could have lasted forever. It was so pleasing and turning-on. He could feel that thrill for the rest of his life, always about to come, but never really being free of feeling pleasure.

Moran mouth is replaced from his hand now. And John's dream of feeling that forever is crushed. With deep and strokes, up and down, making him feel so hot inside and tingling, smelling just of sex, Sebastian manages to drive him on the edge. He goes up to his ear.

"Game over." After he whispers that John comes violently, shaking everywhere, not feeling his legs anymore, with his mind totally blank and gasping, searching for air, to fill his empty lungs from the bliss he went through, and getting all dirty with his own semen on his chest.

Moran takes John's shirt, cleans up the mess on their body and then he throws it away. John is still laying, not daring moving. Eyes closed. He doesn't want to look Moran in the eyes. Not now. He doesn't want to see him. And just when he thinks Sebastian's going to leave something happens.

Moran bends down, and give him a soft kiss on his forehead and says something, murmuring.

"Goodbye Jim."


	10. Day six

DAY SIX

John does nothing but sleep. All those days. He suffered, and slept. And of course, there had been the little thing with Moran. John isn't even sure he was conscious. But yes, he was. He enjoyed it. He wants to throw up just at the thought. He just wants to be alone. With himself. With his mind, empty. But his mind isn't empty at all. A lot of flashback of those moments with Moran keep passing behind his eyes. He keeps feeling the sensation he proved when he came. When Moran said game over. When he said goodbye.

Doesn't that goodbye mean that every hope he had to get out has just vanished? Because with that goodbye all the Moriarty that was in John was gone. Now he was just John. And that might be dangerous and not nice. John had no idea of how much Moran was angry now, with him, with Sherlock. Three times angrier than before. Because Moran didn't like at all everything that happened. Like John. There was just confusion between them now, confusion, embarrassment and anger for not having stopped.

The food was right in front of him, but he doesn't want to eat. It was the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted to drink. But not water. He would have really liked something alcoholic and strong, to keep every emotion distant. But he can't, and being drunk would have been devastated.

His body shakes before letting his mind thinking of Moran. It really bothers him. Everything. Everything now was so much more complicated. Millions of voices are screaming into his head. It was so wrong. It was so right. It was so damn pleasant. It was so scary. It was so angry. It was so stupid. It was so amazing. It was the best thing that happened to John. It was the worst. The voices still scream these things in his head. He doesn't know how to stop them.

He tries to sleep again. He can't. He tries to eat everything so fast to make himself feel sick and not think. He can't. He tries to count till hundred, ten times. Ten more. He can't stop them. He tries to sing. It's the dumbest thing he could do, but he doesn't know what to do. He really doesn't want to think about Moran. About where he is.

Sherlock. Sherlock keeps popping into his mind. He comes in and goes out. Like a swing he passes in front of him. One second it's there. The one after is not. Sherlock. All he was thinking about while he was in the oblivion with Moran. He supposes that as Moran imagined Jim, he had the right to imagine Sherlock. That wasn't fair, though. It really wasn't. And the idea disgusted him. Not because he was Sherlock. But because of Moran. Because John had been so weak. He hadn't been able to resist to a sexual impulse. Just because he needed a distraction. That wasn't a good distraction.

He starts to roll in his bed. Going from the left to the right. Then he stands up. He jumps. He screams. To overbear his thoughts. He stops screaming. He sits down. He stands up. He tries to run away, but he's still tied up. The handcuffs are still there. So_, that_ maybe could have been a good distraction.

He goes near the joint of the chains on the wall. It's all pretty thick. Even the metal. It's thick but there's one part, on the corner of the joint that's really sharp. He knows because the other day he accidentally went against it with his arm and it had left to him a cut. He tries to touch it with his index. He cut himself. He goes deeper. The cut now is a hole in his finger. It hurts. But it's distracting. He takes the finger back. It's bleeding now. And the blood isn't stopping. He's almost pleased at the sight. Because he doesn't make him think about everything else.

It feels like that time, three years before, when he cut his feet. It's the same hypnotizing feeling. But now the blood is less. And so, he takes another finger and slowly slides him on the sharping part. It's an odd sensation. It tickles but it hurts at the same time. John chuckles. He wasn't a masochist. But he needed not to think. And that helped.

Suddenly he feels that something is wrong. There's something familiar in the air. Something that tastes like home. Like something old, that he loved. He turns around, with the fingers still bleeding. And Sherlock is there. In front of him. But he has his long coat. His black, curly, usual hair. His face has a normal colour. He's smiling. A proper, real smile. It's not the Sherlock he told him he would save him. It's _his_ Sherlock.

Tears are forming on John eyes. Sherlock still smiling at him. John can't touch him, he knows it. So that was it. The blood, the same feeling, the same Sherlock.

"It's good to see you here." John speaks, and he doesn't know if he's happy or terribly afraid.

"It shouldn't be." Sherlock answers. But he's still smiling. His voice so serious, his smile so pleased.

"Wh… why not? It's you. I know you. You're the good one. I'm alone. Oh Sherlock, I'm so alone. I need your help. _You _are my friend. Help me find a way to get out of here." He knows he's actually talking to nothing. But he needs to talk with someone. With Sherlock.

"I can't John. But you have a way out. Just go deeper with that cut. Go deeper." He's still smiling. He's creepy now. That smile is like a stab in John's heart.

"You… You want me to cut myself… to death?" His voice is trembling, he doesn't want to die. Not because Sherlock told him. How could he dare telling John to die? But Sherlock is there. Looking at John. Never been more honest with him. And death is probably the only way to have some peace. Or maybe not. He had thought about it so many times, but those were times when he didn't know Sherlock, the actual Sherlock, was still alive.

"No, John. I want you to be happy. I want you feel good. I want you to feel peaceful. I want you to be saved." The smile now was more sympathetic. John could have had it a try.

He places his wrist under the corner. Sherlock nods, telling him with his blue eyes to go on. John is about to pull when he withdraws. Sherlock frowns. The smile gone completely away.

"What are you doing?"

"What are _you_ doing? My Sherlock would never tell me to kill myself. You're not him. I know him. He would help me. You are not Sherlock. Who are you?" John is afraid of what he's seeing now.

The image of Sherlock is fading. It's like a damaged hologram. Now he's smiling again. He's laughing. He never heard Sherlock laughing like that. It wasn't him.

The figure was taking another shape. John rubs his eyes. It's all so not clear. He doesn't know what he's seeing. He can't divide reality from imagination. Suddenly Moriarty is in front of him. But it's not all. It's not just Moriarty. His face. It's double. One side is Moriarty. One side is Moran. But now is changing. It's about seconds, the face keeps changing. The sides keep changing. From Moriarty, to Moran, to Sherlock, to Mycroft, to Lestrade, to Mrs. Hudson, to Anderson, to Donovan, to Molly and to John. They keep changing, always a different pairing, always the same cruel, frightening grin. They're all laughing at John.

The laughter fill his head. It's just one confused, unbearable noise. He hears screaming and crying, between the laughter. It's all exploding in his mind, until suddenly everything stops.

Silence. Nobody in front of him. He hears a violin playing.

"Sherlock. Is that you?" He asks, still upset.

Then a violent blow hit his head. And he blacks out.

…

"What the hell were you thinking about?!" Sherlock shouts as soon as John opens his eyes.

"What?" He whispers. He doesn't have so much voice. What happened to his voice?

"What? Look at your arm. That's what." Sherlock is weird. He's angry, he's shaking, his eyes are all red, there's some slaver on his chin, he's paler than the usual. And more than shaking he seems to have spams all around. He is nervous and his feet are just unstoppable. Something happened to him.

But the first thing John notices is his arm. It's all bind up. And all dirty. From blood. He lost a lot of blood apparently. That was why he passed out. But why?

"I don't know what happened. What happened? I don't-" He stops, frowns. "I can't remember."

"Oh well. Apparently you cut yourself all over your arm. What did you want to do? Die?" He chuckles, disappointed. "You're a doctor John. You know for a man like you it needs more than a simple cut. Although it wasn't that simple. Why did you do it John. Why?"

"I don't remember!" John is yelling, and Sherlock covers his ears, shivering, more than before.

"Tell someone else John." He's talking nearly normal but he's body seems to have its own life. The hands at the ears are seriously shaking so much he could slap himself without noticing.

"Sherlock. Sherlock stop it. What's the matter with you?" He's wrapped in himself now. Shushing John. His eyes closed tight. He's swinging and shaking and shouting without letting out any sound. He's scaring John. "What's happening? Sherlock! Are you okay?" What a stupid, useless question.

"Tell me, John! Why did you do it? I said I would save you! I will. WHY?" Sherlock cries out. John never heard a cry louder. He believed Sherlock. He will. He hopes. He better will. John gets angry after that. Sherlock will save him, won't he? He needs to be saved.

He needs to be saved. There's something familiar with this sentence. He needs it. Why? He never thought of that.

Despite that he really doesn't remember. And Sherlock has still his head down between his knees. No one answering to the other. Perfect. John doesn't know anything but that he has fought for Sherlock. So now Sherlock has to fight for him. They save each other. Always have. And it was Sherlock's turn. No matter what.

"I didn't do anything! I just can't remember! Calm down. Sherlock. Calm the fuck down! Everything's fine. I'm alive and fine. We're all fine okay? Please calm down." John begs him, but it's a bad move.

Suddenly Sherlock looks up at John. His eyes are not just red. There are all the shades of red, blue, green and yellow. They're not Sherlock's usual eyes. John knows what those eyes mean. They mean is going in cold turkey. He hadn't take his fix. _No more magic for you, Holmes. _John remembers Moran saying those words. It was talking about the heroin. And Sherlock was in the middle of a crisis. Shit.

"We are not fine. I AM NOT FINE!" Sherlock shouting is really a thing that John can't stand. He can't see his only friend, his only hope, being tortured in that way. It hurts more him than Sherlock.

"I-" John stops, almost crying for panic.

Sherlock chuckles. "You don't know what to say, do you? I'm the victim now. _Oh Sherlock, please, hold on, it'll pass, it'll be better then. _You fucking tell me! I already know how it is. I don't like it! Not at all. How do I know what you were going to say, you think? Nothing simpler, you are crying. You're feeling pity for me. Oh, John, really, don't. I'm better without you. Shut up. Or tell me why you did it. But you don't remember. Of course you don't. So, really shut up. You're not helping me. You can't help me. I fucking hate you. It's all your fault, do you know that? It's all your fault. But I'll save you anyway. And then I'll fucking kill you John Watson. I will, believe me I will."

John can't understands if Sherlock is crying, laughing, or simply screaming in pain. But one thing he knows. He's not going to shut up. He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve a word of what Sherlock just said.

"What? All my fault? Do you know it's all YOUR bloody fault if I am here? So kill me, then! I'll be happy and honored. The great Sherlock Holmes killed me. Is there a better death. And it's all your fault if you fell for this again! If you now are in this state it's not to blaming me but yourself, just yourself! And you can save yourself telling me you'll save me. Leave it. I don't want to. Just stay there suffering, you bastard!" John is angry. Sherlock is angry.

They're both looking at each other, wanting to beat themselves up. But John can't move. And neither can Sherlock. They're trapped in that room. And now nobody is going to save John.

"Why are you here?" John asks eventually.

"Moran put me in here."

"Okay."

"Fine.

"Good."

"Yeah."

John stays silent for some minutes. Then talks.

"Are we going to keep doing this?"

"This what?"

"This silence, childish game?"

"I'm not playing any game."

"Right."

Sherlock is sweating and is all wet for the physical pain. John starts to remember all the things he had done with Moran. Playing games. Being human. He doesn't want to remember.

"How will it last?"

"A few days."

"Will you be okay?"

"Of course not."

"Does it hurt, now?"

"What do you think?"

"I hope it does."

Silence. Nobody speaks. Sherlock shakes. John quiet. The rest of the day passes. Without talking. Without eating. Forced being so close but so far apart. John hates Sherlock. Sherlock hates John. It's a stupid real nightmare. Where the soldier and the detective never been friends. Never loved each other. Where the soldier and the detective are like an angel and a demon. Where it doesn't exist earth, just heaven and hell. And they are the protagonist of an endless war.


	11. Day seven

DAY SEVEN

Nothing but the silence between them. Sherlock is still in pain. John is still watching him while he's shattered. There are moments when he likes seeing Sherlock like that, and moments when he hates it. He just wants all of this to end. He knows he can't have an happy ending, so why can't it all stop now? With his heart broken and his mind almost resigned to all that situation. Silence, for all the day.


	12. Day eight

DAY EIGHT

"Can you pass me the plate?"

"Take it yourself."

"Too far."

"I don't care. Eating is not so essential."

"Sherlock."

"John?"

"The plate."

"No."

"Pass me that fucking thing!"

"No. Ask nicely."

"Since when do you care about it? I'm not going to say please."

"So don't eat."

"Fuck you. Please. Could you pass me the plate?"

"You asked for it."

Sherlock takes the plate from the table and throws it towards John. With violence. Still dirty of his own vomit and split. Still smelling. Still spasming sometimes. He hasn't recovered yet. But he feels better now. His mind has always been stronger than his body. He can control it just a bit.

"Ouch!" John groans. All the food on his clothes.

"Thanks." He says frustrated.

John is starving though, so he takes all the food he can from the mattress and him and eats. Sherlock stares at him, disgusted. John doesn't care. He can stares how much he wants. He's hungry and he needs to eat.

He's almost done when he looks up. Sherlock still staring. John has the impression than instead Sherlock wants just to eat.

"You… want some?"

Sherlock is quiet. John gives up asking him. He's about to eat the last bite of chicken but Sherlock stops him.

"Yes."

John takes his hand away from his mouth.

"Yes, what?"

"I… want some." Sherlock is really making an effort to ask him.

"Ask nicely then."

"John." He snorts.

"Come on."

Sherlock clears his throat. "Can I have some?"

"Can I have some and then?"

"Can I have some, _please_?" He hisses the last word with frustration.

John is about to throw it just like Sherlock did with the plate. He's ready to do it but then, without thinking, he crawls as far as the handcuffs let him and gives the chicken to Sherlock putting it on his side, with calm. He rests his hand on the floor with the food under for a bit. He's taking it away when Sherlock puts his on it. The touch makes him shiver. The look at each other intensely.

"Thank you." Sherlock whispers.

John gives him an half smile, but he's still angry at him. At least he said thanks. He comes back to his bed and rests his head on the pillow, not facing Sherlock. He hears him chewing. Then the silence, again.


	13. Day nine

DAY NINE

John wakes up. For some seconds he thinks he's still at home. With Mary on his side. He thinks about going to work, having a normal day, watch some telly with his wife and then goes to sleep. But when he opens his eyes he realizes that that wasn't his life anymore. It hasn't been for 9 days and now they seem ten years of captivity.

Sherlock is still there, on the corner of the room. He's sleeping, at least he seems asleep. He looks normal, peaceful, like those rare nights when John came back after a drink in a pub and he found him on the sofa with a book on his chest, his eyes closed and his mouth barely open while he was breathing like a very tired child. He was beautiful, when he sleeps he's even more. He looks really like a baby. He looks like an all-nice person. A sweet one. With a charming smile and gentle eyes. But that is not Sherlock.

John closes his eyes for some seconds. Trying to relax for what he could. When he re-opens them there is a shadow on him, contrasting with the light behind. He's a curved figure. It's the woman, he finds out. Nobody talks. She isn't dressed smart anymore. She has a pair of jeans and a simple t-shirt. She's all soap and water. She looks so different. Prettier. John immediately thinks about the food. He's still very hungry, but then he notices she hasn't any. So why was she there?

"Good morning. Slept well?" Her voice is so soft and kind.

"I had better nights."

"I believe you."

She turns and goes to Sherlock. She kicks him without hurting him.

"Come on, wake up."

Sherlock whines. He moves a bit and the he sits up rubbing his eyes looking all confused for a moment.

"Yes. Yes, I'm awake."

"Good" Exclaims the woman.

"No kiss this time?" John asks. Chuckling serious.

"To me or to you?" Sherlock replies.

John raises his eyebrow.

"Let's ask her." John looks at her, with an almost amused gaze.

"I won't kiss nobody here. Now, Moran wants to do something with you two guys."

At the word Moran, John winces. All the memories of their little moment come to his mind. He's afraid now, of what Moran could do to him, with him. He remembers the touch of his hands, the wet of his tongue, the heath he felts when he kissed him. Stop. He shakes his head.

Sherlock is also worried, John can say it from the look on his face. He's frowning and screaming in the inside to just leave him alone.

"Oh, look at your two little scared faces." She laughs bitterly. "It's nothing to worry about. He just thought you two needed a shower. And honestly, John, you really stink." She smirks.

Sherlock sighs.

"You too, Sherlock. I don't even know who stinks more in this room. You are disgusting. The smell in this room makes my stomach turns."

John never thought of taking a shower. He had his mini personal bathroom. Well, he had a toilet bowl just next to his bed, but he didn't use it so much. He didn't need it. But the thought of a shower makes him feel better. Provided always that it wasn't a shower with gas. He didn't like the idea. But he knew Moran wanted them alive so he is relieved.

Sherlock doesn't seem to like the idea. But with all the vomit he had thrown out maybe it was a pleasant thing.

For John is even a good moment to understand where he was. He only had seen that room and some meters out of the door. Maybe it could help him to find a way to escape. Even if it was a very complicated thing. Sherlock looks at him, as if he was reading his mind. He smiles knowing that John's plan is completely useless. John looks away. Now he is really angry at him. Again.

"Fine." Sherlock eventually says.

"Good choice boys." She's actually laughing too much for a simple shower.

"Who goes first, then?" John asks, hoping he was the first so he would have more time alone.

"Nice try, John." Sherlock answers, looking still at the woman, with a thwarted gaze, but smiling.

"What do you mean? It's because you want to go first? Fine."

"It's because you have to go together." The woman adds giving John a smooth grin.

"Wh… what?" John frowns.

"Come on. We have to go. It'll be fun John. Don't worry."

"Sorry but no. I'd rather smell for life than take a shower with Mr. I Am A Fucking Junkie here."

"It's not that I'll enjoy it, but I don't think we have any other option."

"Yes, we do. Not going." John replies angrier every time at Sherlock. He doesn't really want to.

"Stop it. The shower is big enough. It's a public shower. You don't have to stay all close and everything. Just together. Moran's orders." She reassures them. John sighs.

"Fine. When?"

"Now sweetie."

"So now you're calling him with my names? Not fair." Sherlock chuckles.

"What's so funny, Sherlock?" John is crossed and confused and everything is pissising him off.

"John, relax. It's just a shower."

"Yeah, now…" The woman goes towards John.

She takes his hands, and with a key lets John free. He rubs his wrists. He hadn't realized how much uncomfortable and stinging they were. He's relieved. It's really like being free. Sherlock stands up, and follows the woman out of the room. John takes some steps and the last one is so weird because with the chains he couldn't go so far. It was strange and amazing. A step towards the freedom, a step towards hell because of the shower with Sherlock. He stops for a few seconds but then the woman calls him and he goes on.

They pass through a narrow corridor, with blank walls and black floor. They don't walk too much. There are now windows but there are a lot of video cameras. He feels observed, but he was even before. The woman and Sherlock are in front of him. What if he runs away from behind? He turns his head, but there's no way out. Perfect.

So he keeps walking. He watches Sherlock. He's limping. But he's still upright. He's a strong man and John always admired him for that, because he had that thin body and such a strength in his bones. They turn right once and then left. There is a door down the corridor. The woman stops, and so do they.

"Go on. It's that. Enjoy." She says calmly and the walks away.

They stand there for five minutes. Not looking at each other. Nobody wants to take the first step. They waver for all that time when Sherlock walks towards the door, confident. His hand on the handle, opening the door. John is still where he was before. He doesn't like the idea of moving. His legs are stick on the floor.

"John, don't be stupid. Come in." Sherlock enters in the room.

John follows. The shower was really like a public one. Like the ones in changing rooms. The tiles were all grey and there were two showers, without anything to divide them. But there was a lot of room, and John thinks that, maybe, won't be so tragic.

Sherlock begins to take his clothes off. His hands are slowly unfastening his shirt's buttons. One after one John can spot a little more of Sherlock bare chest. Pale and smooth. _Don't look_, he says to himself, but his eyes stay on him. The shirt is now on the floor and John can see how thinner Sherlock was. He was all flesh and bones. But there is something fascinating in his body, like it always has been. When Sherlock hands go to his belt, John looks away. Sherlock smiles.

"Ehmm, what if you go first and I just wait here, turned?" John suggests.

Sherlock looks at him, frowns. "Really?"

"What?"

Sherlock laughs for a second and then goes back serious.

"You can't" Says suddenly a voice happily. It doesn't come from someone in the room. It's a microphone. And it's Moran's voice. He's watching, and he can talk to them. Damn.

"Moran." John hisses, gritting his teeth.

"Hello John. Did you miss me? I never asked, but did you like our little affair? I did. Sooo very much." His voice is high and entertained. It's annoying.

Sherlock frowns and looks at John. So he could miss things out sometimes. John covers his face with the palm of his hand, shaking it. He blushes. He's embarrassed.

"I didn't." John replies blunt.

"Don't lie, John. I never liked liars."

"No, you love them."

There is silence and a scratchy noise.

"You too. Now, you two, go and take that shower."

John looks down when he says "you too". Sherlock is still confused but he already realized that something had happened between them, and he's not happy about it.

"So, with Moran. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." Sherlock teases him, knowing how make John angry.

"Mind your own business, please."

John too begins to undress himself. He ends up just with his pants. It feels so good being naked. It makes him feel more free than before. But it's awkward because Sherlock is there too. Just with his pants. Not looking at each other they take off even those and now they are completely naked.

Sherlock goes towards the shower. He turns the water on, and stays under it. In a few seconds he's completely wet. John looks at his body. Stares at him. His eyes go from his head, his hair all straight and dripping, black and shiny because of the water, to his shoulders and his back. He can see the muscles under his skin. His arms are rubbing his face now, so now his back is bending and it's such a nice view to John. Then his eyes go to his bottom and his legs. They're perfect, long and tempting. John realizes he's staring too much when Sherlock coughs.

So John goes to his part of the shower and turns on the water. It's hot and very pleasant. It's so relaxing that John stops thinking. There is only the wet and the water dropping on him. He feels like he's swimming in the ocean, being free to go wherever he wants, knowing that he'll never touch earth. He doesn't even care about turning around so that Sherlock can't see him. He takes a deep slow breath under that artificial rain and now the ocean has become the heart of London. Closing his eyes he imagines to be there, in a rainy day, standing in the middle of the crowd listening to the noise that sweetly becomes silence. He's sinking into his fantasies, taking the back of his neck, and letting the water dipping into his skin.

"I'm bored." Suddenly speak Moran's voice, and John comes back to reality. Both Sherlock and him open their eyes for the surprise. "Do something fun. Please." Moran requests.

"Like what?" Sherlock answers.

"I don't know. Touch yourselves." He says laughing.

"You crazy." John snaps.

"No, I'm not. And, actually, do touch yourselves. I saw how you looked at Sherlock before. You know you want to touch him." Moran is so serious he's almost scary.

"I really don't."

"John, he can see when you're lying." Sherlock says, looking at him.

"What?" John frowns, he's confused. He's not lying. He isn't. He doesn't want to touch Sherlock. He hates Sherlock. Now, at least, he really hates him. He doesn't even want to stay there near to him but he's forced.

"Don't play the innocent Sherlock. I know you want it too."

"I don't. Don't try to read me."

"I'm not reading you, I know you. I know what you feel for the little soldier. And I know what the Doctor feels for his brilliant detective. Let me play cupid for a while." They can hear Moran smiling now.

John is actually pissed off. And Sherlock too. Moran is not doing it right. And they're not in the mood to play that game. Especially John. So he turns off the water and takes his clothes. Sherlock is watching him, through the water still running over him. John is about to put his pants on when they hear the door locking. John finishes with his pants and run to the door. He tries to open it but he can't.

"That's perfect!" He says letting his arm fall to his sides. "We're locked inside. We can't go out."

"Splendid deduction." Sherlock only replies.

"Yeah. Okay, fine. Moran. Let me out. I'll stay on that bloody room forever. But let me out!"

"Don't need to shout. No, anyway. You have to stay here and let me having some fun. For me guys."

"I really hate you." John says, turning over Sherlock, and pointing a fingers to him.

"Me? What have I done now?"

"YOU EXIST!" John yells, and then he lets himself fall on the floor, and starts to cry.

"I've been told worse than this."

John looks up, his eyes full of anger and hate. How can he be so calm? He doesn't understands. He just wants to punch him in the face and make him suffer like he did in those three years.

"Uuuh, I like anger. It's sexy." Moran states.

"Shut up!" Sherlock cries out.

His cry surprises John. Sherlock face is red but pale, he's shaking.

"I'll shut up if you'll amuse me. I'm really bored, you know, and I have nobody to shoot, that's a pity."

"Shoot your bloody head up." John mumbles, with the tears on his face.

"Nah. Now, come on, you know what you have to do. Go on."

The silence falls. John doesn't dare moving, but Sherlock goes towards him, leaving the water open. He is still naked, so John doesn't look straight, just up at his face. John isn't crying anymore, but his eyes are still red. Sherlock sits on his knees in front of him.

"I hate you." He snaps.

"Me too."

John thinks for a moment and then talks.

"Do you really want to do as he says?"

"We have no other choice. The idea repels me, don't flatter yourself, but I don't want to stay in here forever."

"I'm not going to-" He swallows. "touch you."

"John." Sherlock is looking at him, penetrating in his soul with his piercing eyes.

"I don't even know what he wants. Where to start. I don't want to. Not at all."

Sherlock stands up angrily. "Because I want to?"

"I suppose not."

"Very clever!"

There's silence again. They're staring at each other. John eyes go up and down from Sherlock face to his chest.

"Doctor, you better stand up and do as your partner says. For your own sake." Moran says interrupting the awkwardness of their gazes.

John, resigned, stands up. He goes towards the shower, where Sherlock is. They are so close, but their hearts are so far apart because of all the hate they're feeling for each other. That is not going to be a sweet experience. Sherlock bring his hand on John's arm. At first is soft. But then he grasps and he takes it with strength, hurting John. So John bring his hand on Sherlock's neck and tightens, without taking his breath away, but making him groan.

This is going to be a love battle. Sherlock slams him on the wall. John feels the cold of it and bends his back. But Sherlock is pushing too hard, and he can't move. They stay like that for a while, looking at their own hands, gripping at each other's body. Sherlock closes his eyes. Breaths slowly, like when he was slipping before. John stares at him now.

"You're a bloody idiot." He says. Sherlock opens his eyes, there's cruelty in them. He looks like he wants to kill John but taking him away at the same time.

He tightens even more now. John says something against the pain but Sherlock doesn't care. He goes closer, now their chest are touching, but they're careful at not touching anything there's down. Sherlock can feels John hearts beating faster and his breath hot and scared. His grip loosens and now he's stroking John's arm. Even John loosens his grip.

They're almost fine and calm, when Sherlock, in a moment of pure anger, crushes his lips against John's. It's unexpected from John, that moans under that kiss. If it can be called kiss. It's more like a fight between the words they never told. It' full of fury and sadness. John can feel Sherlock's tongue on his lower lip, brushing violently. All the desire Sherlock ever felt on the deep is coming out like an hurricane and John suffers the consequences.

"Oh, I like it." They hear Moran speaking, but they are too busy too care.

John's hands are everywhere on Sherlock's back. Then he caresses his chest slowly, to digging his way in it with his nails. Sherlock breaks the kiss and groans. There's nothing but disgust between them. Not even a piece of all the love John felt for that man is with him right now. He wants him to suffer. And Sherlock wants that too. It was really a war, fought with their arms, hands, mouths and tongues.

John now kisses Sherlock, going deeper this time. His tongue rubbing Sherlock's palate and then twisted with his. It's an endless conflict between their mouth, when Sherlock takes John's tongue and starts sucking it. John moans in Sherlock's mouth. He never thought Sherlock was so good at kissing, and sucking. He could do things with his mouth that were driving John crazy.

John hands go up to Sherlock's head and grasp at his hair, pulling hard, breaking the kiss. They're both gasping, as if they had run for two hours without stopping. The water is still dropping on them and it makes Sherlock so beautiful and hot. John has butterflies in his stomach, but all he wants is revenge. Revenge for what he suffered because of him. Sherlock's lips were red and swollen, wet for the water and John wanted to kiss them until they would bleed. But when he's about to do it, Sherlock brings his mouth to John's throat.

As if he was exploding inside, Sherlock starts to kiss and lick every spot on John's bare skin. This wasn't exactly what John had in mind. Especially when Sherlock bites him hard, and actually makes him bleed. With that John jerks and his leg ends up between Sherlock's legs and his cock. John realizes Sherlock is really hard, and so is he. But he had still his pants, and he didn't want to get off because of Sherlock, with him. When he's hating all of this, someone else is really enjoying it.

"Oh, yes, like that." Moran talks again and he's really please about what he's seeing.

"Sherlock, why don't you undress the Doctor completely?"

Sherlock stops brutally and looks up at the camera. He narrows his eyes and then continues with John. His tongue working his way towards John's belly, and in the meanwhile he licks his nipples and bite them, and John is freaking out, pulling Sherlock's hair harder, but this time Sherlock doesn't stop. He takes John's pants with his hands and yanks them off. He's on his knees, with his head facing John's crotch, staring at John's hard dick already wet for the water and the precome. Sherlock licks his lips and looks up, crossing his gaze with John's.

John is shaking his head saying no, but Sherlock knows he wants it. At least his body wants to.

"Sherlock, I really really hate you. I never hated someone like I hate you. You ruined my life. It's all your fault if I'm here. Couldn't you stay dead? It would have been so much better than this. I. Hate. You." John snaps while Sherlock's breath is still on his dick and he isn't moving.

"It." He gives a slow lick at John's thigh. "Isn't." He gives it another at the other thigh. "My." He kisses the head of John's cock. "Fault." He takes all of it in his mouth and he lets go after a long, hot lick all over it. John is moaning and hissing and his eyes are closed for the pleasure he doesn't want to feel. It isn't like with Moran. There, he wanted the pleasure, he wanted him. Even if he was so wrong. Now he just wants Sherlock to get away from him, and run. But he still wants to beat him. And so he does. He kicks Sherlock on his balls, making him fall on the floor. Once Sherlock's on the floor he blocks him putting himself over him. Sherlock can't move for the pain and because of John, that in that moment was strong enough to wraps him.

"Yes. It is. Don't deny it." After saying those words John bends on him and kisses him roughly. They both moan and groan. John's tongue is working Sherlock's mouth fantastically and it's Sherlock's turn now, to grasp at his hair, but he doesn't pull, he pushes John closer. He wants to melt in him, with him. He wants to drown, suffocated by the heath he's feeling on his body.

John's hand now is on Sherlock waist and he pushes closer to make his cock rubbing against Sherlock's. They both whimper for the strokes and they hear someone gasping. Moran. They don't care. They don't care if Moran is busy with himself watching them. They only care about their fight. They're being bad, for the first time in their life, with each other.

Sherlock hand grabs John's shaft, hard, without gentleness and he strokes up and down, making John breaking the kiss and letting him gasp. John takes the hand away, though. And Sherlock frowns, for a moment, and then he starts licking and biting John's ear, making him feel in heaven. John damns his ears and pushes his face on Sherlock's throat.

Then John's hands go to his legs and spread them apart. Sherlock shivers when John's hand is on his arse hole. He's making little circles, watching Sherlock's reaction, it's too good. So then John puts his fingers in. And he knows that without lube, this hurts. And Sherlock cries out a bit, biting his own lips, saying nonsense things to John. The moment after they're kissing. Their lips are struggling and their tongues are going crazy. The only thing they feel is the wet and the pleasure, the smell of sex and their bones hurting for the strokes their bodies are giving.

But John is determined to stop Sherlock's pleasure. He takes away his fingers and places is cock on Sherlock's entry. Sherlock whimpers.

"John. John you can't."

"Shut up. This better hurts you."

John is ready to go in, and without asking he does. He slides on him, with effort, because it's all so rough, but with violence, giving the first trust. Sherlock cries out in pain. But John can only feel the tightness between his cock, and it's bloody amazing. He gives other two strokes and he groans in pure pleasure and bliss. Sherlock is twisting all over, but his eyes are open and he's looking straight at John, and together with the harm there's also lust and desire and the most incredibly perdition. John pushes again, trusting in his ass. The feeling is fantastic, but he can't bear watching Sherlock's eyes right now.

Sherlock's dick is exactly between their bellies and at each rubbing Sherlock is closer to come. And John's too. He gives more friction now, he's going faster and harder over Sherlock's arse. It feels tighter now, and John is so damn close. Their both moaning and shouting. John gives the last stroke and comes violently, shaking and shivering, feeling his head spinning and his heart beating very fast. Sherlock feels him come in him. It's hot and astonishing. Sherlock comes too, with John, at the same time. Feeling pain everywhere but drowning, in the end, in his own feelings. Not being able to think. His mind empty. He feels almost as he was when he took his fix. But this is even better, because of John.

John comes out of him and rests next Sherlock, breathless. Nobody talks. Nobody moves.

Suddenly Moran comes in.

"Hello boys! Splendid performance." He's all red in the face, and he smells of sex too.

"Oh, you're disgusting. You got off watching us." John says, still on the floor, without caring of being naked.

"I got off watching _you_." Sebastian snaps.

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs. John ignores the comment. They're both tired. And John just wants to sleep.

"Can we go back to the room now?" Sherlock says exhausted.

"Yes. Yes you can. I just passed to say it was wonderful. Thank you." With that Moran goes away and they rest there for five more minutes. Then John stands up and put on his clothes. Sherlock stays there, on the floor, but John doesn't care, once dressed he goes out, towards the room. Once there he falls on the mattress and closes his eyes, thinking about all the hate he just gave to Sherlock. Thinking about the fact that he had wanted to touch Sherlock for so long and now he just did but he isn't happy.

Thinking, he falls asleep, but just before falling very deeply in his sleep he hears Sherlock comes in. He smiles. Maybe now it's all sorted. Or maybe it's just a pause during the war.


	14. Day ten

DAY TEN

John dreams about the sea, about the sound of the waves that cradle him, about the touch of the sand under his feet, about the sun fading away in the sky and about a sweet and hot wind caressing his face. He's alone, and he simply walks, towards the infinite. His eyes are closed but he can feel everything around him. He's fine, he's good in that reality. Every part of that world is perfect, but he knows he's dreaming. And he understands that when something touches his hand and brush his fingers. He doesn't know if he wants to open his eyes, because the touch reminds him the sand of the dream and he wants to bury himself in it.

Eventually he decides to open his eyes, slowly, with no rush. He finds Sherlock just in front of him, curled up and sleepy. The fact that he isn't awake makes John feel a little better. Even if he really didn't know how he ended up there. Not that he minded. He actually finds the heath of his body pleasant and nice, it reminds him one Christmas night when he was at the flat in Baker Street and Sherlock fell asleep on his shoulder after too many drinks. Times where they were happy, at least Sherlock was, with his cases and his super mind.

In fact, John isn't even sure Sherlock has ever been happy. He thinks so, at least he seemed happy. He seemed happy when John would tell him he was brilliant, when John would give him a hot cup of tea, he seemed happy when John would sit next to him just to listen to his crazy theories, he seemed happy when John would smile at him, he seemed happy just with John to his side. But now things are different and John don't think they will ever have a chance again to live like that.

Sherlock fingers are still brushing his, when Sherlock completely holds John's hand, and curls a little more, with a frown on his face. He's dreaming, thinks John. About something bad, or something sad, because now he's crying and screaming without making a noise. John doesn't know whether to wake him or not. Anyway, Sherlock wakes up by his own.

He opens his eyes and looks at John with an afraid gaze that makes John worries for a second. Then Sherlock is hugging him so hard John can't breathe properly. His hold is tight and it feels like he's trying to enclose John in him. He isn't letting John go, but John doesn't actually have air and he really needs to breathe.

"Sherlock." He tries to say, choking. "I… I can't breathe. Please." Sherlock loosens his grip but he's still holding him like a baby that doesn't want to leave his mom.

"Don't let me go." Sherlock barely whispers.

"I… What? Sherlock?" John is confused, he thought they were still angry with each other. He wasn't expecting something like that. What does Sherlock even mean with that? "Sherlock, what's going on? Would you explain?"

Then Sherlock withdraws and he's just a few inches from John. Their noses are almost touching. Sherlock's eyes are bigger than always, and so blue. He's looking at John as if he was a flower dying for the winter and he was losing all his beauty all at once. He's looking at him like John used to look at his mom when she was ill. He's looking at John with the same sadness he had in his eyes when he visited Sherlock's grave.

Sherlock moves, and turns around. "Nothing. Just, forget it. A bad dream, that's all." He admits and then takes his head in his hands, hiding from the dark.

John places his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Tell me what's wrong, please." He wants to take his hand a little further but he finds himself cuffed again. Damn. He's still angry with Sherlock, he realizes, but seeing him like that was breaking his heart apart. His hand is slowly making his way up and down Sherlock's back, feeling his skin shiver under his shirt.

"Nothing is wrong. I've told you." Sherlock turns around to facing him. They're eyes meet and John smiles, for sympathy. Sherlock's smile follow after his. It's so weird smiling after the day before. They basically just hurt each other, in a very awkward way, and now they're smiling, so close, so peaceful. But then Sherlock's smile is gone.

"Smile again." John asks. Sherlock frowns.

"Why?"

"Just, do it. It makes me… forget about everything else."

Sherlock grins, it's not a fake smile, he's doing it for John, because he doesn't want him to go away, because he wants to make him happy, because he's so sorry for the situation John's in it and he does want to make him feel better. He's doing it because he wants to forget about what happened the day before, he's smiling just for him, knowing that this will be the only time he will be able to feel actually happy. John is looking into his soul, basically. He's not smiling, but it's okay, because then even Sherlock stops smiling. They're just exchanging a deep, loving look. Nobody speaks, and John leans a bit over. And now they're really close. Sherlock thinks he's going to be kissed, he wants it, at least.

"I won't." John simply say, breathing on Sherlock's lips.

It takes a moment for Sherlock to understand that he's referring to what he said before. _Don't let me go. _He's released. And happy. And sad. He's a confused circle of strange feelings. In that moment he just wants to lean over, just a little more, to kiss John. To brush is lips, feeling them over his. To feel that he's his own world, that there's never been anything else. To feel they'll never be apart. To combine his mind with John's. To let him hear all his thoughts. To let him feel all the love he always felt but that he never wanted to show, to not seem weak. The truth is that Sherlock's a coward. And he wants to kiss John even to apologize to him. For everything. He wants to hold him and save him.

When he's thinking this John is closing his eyes, and breathing really slowly. He seems as he's waiting for something, and Sherlock can't resist. He wants to take him home, safe. And to do that, he eventually kisses him. It's so sweet and gentle that John barely feels it. But he shivers anyway. It's so different from all the kisses they shared before. This is more like a goodbye to the anger. When Sherlock is about to let the kiss become deeper John moves away.

"Are we… making peace or what? Are we fine, after… yesterday?" He's frowning, confused. He wants real answers, not just some words of comfort.

"I think we are, yes. I mean, I'm obviously sorry for what happened. You're too. Let's just forget about it." Sherlock leans over John once again but he stops him with a hand on his chest.

"No, stop, one moment. Why are you kissing me?"

"Because I want to. And you want it too."

"Yes, no, I mean yes. I want to. But why are _you_?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it's you."

"Yeah. Can't I kiss people?"

"No, obviously no, it's just that I didn't think you could be so…"

"You didn't think I could feel anything."

"Sweet. I was going to say sweet."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"What do you mean by sweet? I've never been sweet."

"You are now." They're looking at each other. It's so awkward make this conversation in that room, knowing that Moran is probably watching, that they basically raped each other some hours before, that they were hating each other, that John's hands are tied and John is a junkie who's recovering little by little and that they are probably stuck there forever.

"I'm not. I just want to kiss you. That isn't sweet, it's a fact."

"It's the way you were doing it. It was sweet. I… I don't know."

"Can I just kiss you, please?"

"Why?" John keeps asking and Sherlock is getting nervous.

"Oh, come on!"

"No, tell me."

"I don't know. I just want to. Can you say why you want to kiss me?"

_Because I love you. _John realizes in a second. His eyes are open wide and his face is scared. But then he came back serious.

"No. I think I can't."

"You thought you were in love with me, didn't you?" Sherlock narrows his eyes to check him.

"What?" John is even more scared now. How did he know that?

Sherlock doesn't answer, just take John's face with his hands and kiss him. This one is more confident. It's a collision of their lips, a caress of their tongues and a melt of their hearts. It's still a very gentle kiss. This isn't a fight anymore. It's a sweet and fresh dance. It's the desert with rain, a flower with spring, the dark with light. Sherlock can feel John's love through his hands, grasping the back of his head. And John can feel Sherlock's sorrow through his tears. It's an endless kiss. They feel safe. They feel to the top. They feel amazing. They feel good. They feel home.

When they break the kiss, for John it's just like an end of a touching and beautiful story, but he knows every story has to end. They smile at each other. Their eyes never leaving their faces, and their hands never changing position, on each other chest and heart. They hadn't even realized that. And when everything seems to be perfect, despite everything, there's a knock at the door.

…

John suddenly wakes up. He opens his eyes, and there's darkness all around for a couple of seconds. They were never in fact kissing. They were never making peace. The sea, the waves and the sand were just a dream in a dream. Sherlock was never so sweet and lovely. He never really thought he loved him. They were still there, in that room, alone, with their hearts still so far apart.

The ghost of that dream stays on John's mind. He can remember all so well, the lips on lips, all the love he felt. He really wanted to make peace, but a look toward Sherlock makes him change his mind. It takes so little to make him hate him. He's there, lost in his thoughts. He's looking right in front of him. John can't believe he dreamt about all those things, when this man, so cruel, so mean, so changed was there, ready to make him suffer.

Looking at him, all dark in his corner. John just wants a little bit of light right now, to give him hope. Because he lost it all, hope. He can't think anything good is coming from this. Or from Sherlock. Or from him. He's scared of what he could do, could say. He's got not faith anymore. He wants to sleep, and never wake again. He wants to hide himself from the world. He lost himself. He doesn't know who he is, who he used to be. If he was a soldier or a simple doctor, if he was a normal person, with a normal life or someone with an all other kind of life. He can't remember Mary, or Sherlock before her, or his life in the army. He can't remember Harry, or his parents, he can't remember anything but the image of him, there, wrapped in his hopelessness. He just wants to be blind, but feel the dawn and the sun rising. He wants to be deaf but feel the music of life. He wants to be silent, but feel the air screaming out of his lungs. But it's difficult when the devil controls him, and there's no angel to protect him this time. Because Sherlock is there, in the corner, thinking, as always.

But he can notice he's looking at something specific. It's a key. A little key, it seems the key the woman used to open his handcuffs. Why was it there? The first impulse he has it's to ask Sherlock to pass it to him, but he doesn't think they're allowed to talk.

"Ehmm, guys." Moran talks, always from the loudspeakers.

Sherlock doesn't move his head, but John looks up. Not again. He's actually scared of Moran and what he could say to them, because if he was going to say to touch themselves again, that was it. But he doesn't.

"John, since you're the only one who's listening here, I'll talk to you."

"What an honor." John replies, spluttering.

"You see that key, over there? Right? Well, that, it's the key of your salvation."

John frowns, crosses his arms, and looks straight up, not convinced at all.

"I knew it you would have been some problem, so, here's the thing. You can take the key, that gentleman there is going to help you, you can get yourself free and go away. I won't stop you, neither will do my men. You can go home, to Mary, if you want. You can go and live again."

"Where's the gip?"

Moran chuckles. "If you go and get free, Sherlock here, will die. Alone. Without you watching. Just die, a single shot, nothing too painful. Just a bit of dying for your… friend." Silence in the room.

Sherlock does now look up. He frowns, he's trembling, he never in fact stopped trembling since he woke up.

"What?" John asks paralyzed.

"You heard me perfectly, now, your choice, oh, and you've got all the time you want, there's no problem, you'll just have to tell me yes or not. And know that I'm watching you so don't play games. See ya boys."

With that Moran scratchy voice goes away, and now they're silent, looking at each other. Sherlock's life now depends on John. He doesn't know what to take this decision. It's so difficult. At the beginning he thinks immediately of not doing it. He can't make Sherlock die like this, it's not fair, Moran's not playing fair. He doesn't want to kill anybody, not even indirectly. Seeing him dying once had been already enough. How could he do that to him? Despite everything he was still Sherlock, he could still save him, and get _his_ Sherlock again.

But on the other hand, Sherlock wasn't him anymore. And John was really angry at him. He became a junkie, god knows why. He treated him so bad since he was there. He made him suffer, and made him live three years of his life thinking that his best friend was dead when he wasn't true. He thought every day of his life about him, about the moment when he died. He didn't want to let him go. _Don't let me go._ So that was it. But Sherlock did it, he jumped, he hurt John. He made him believe he was special, but then he left him alone.

John stands up and goes toward the key, even if the handcuffs stop him. Sherlock looks up at him, and then at the key. They are talking with their body, so scared, so unsecure, not knowing what to do, if move a hand to take the key, to take each other's hand, to fight or to love. Sherlock is actually shaking watching him up. There's fear in his eyes. Is Sherlock so much scared of dying, convinced that John will make him die alone? Or maybe it's just that, dying, alone. Although John never though he actually ever expected himself to die with someone on his side. They were to, once. John was ready to stay with him forever, he would have been his family. Till the end.

"Do you…" Sherlock clears his throat, trying not to breaking in pieces. "Dou you want me to pass you the key?" It's such a simply question, but John can't think of an answer anyway. Yes? No? Maybe? Just to look?

"Tell me why you left me alone. Because, right now, thinking about it, you really deserve to die, alone. Do you know what it meant for me, staying without you all along and then found you here? Like this?" John is not looking at him, his gaze is pointing at the floor, his hands still, his head waving a bit.

"I did it for you, John. I couldn't tell you anything. I couldn't. And then you were with Mary, I couldn't just enter into your life like that."

"That was two bloody years after you dead!" John yells. Again, anger is growing in him.

"I know…"

"You know," John snorts laughing slightly. "Is that really the only think you can say?"

"I jumped to save you." Sherlock finally admits.

"Yeah, right. Sorry, what?" John turns suddenly to look at him. "How can you say something like that? To save me from what? From you, from your genius? From our life? What did you save me from?"

Sherlock is about to cry now. John thought he was a strong man, but in that moment he was breaking down. "I did it to save you from everything. To keep you alive. To let you have a life, not to save you from my genius. How could you say something like that? You ar… were my friend. Don't you remember John? The only one. I'm not so heartless as everybody else thinks."

"I wonder why they do."

"I did it because I cared." Sherlock finishes. Now he's definitely crying. His tears are cold on his cheeks and salty. John can see them running down to the ground, falling from his eyes. Heavy like his sins. Sherlock feels guilty. He cared for John. He was his only friend, the only one who really appreciated him. He did it for him, and then he changed. He doesn't want to cry but he can't stop. He takes his head on his hands, gripping tight.

"What did you care about? What happened on that roof? What was worth leaving me on my own, without my only friend?" John is still not looking at him. He hears the tears and the sobs but he can't watch him crying. It's too much.

"I cared about you living, John! And it was all Jim fault."

"Jim?"

"Moriarty."

"Oh, so now we're calling him by his name?"

"No, I… It's complicated."

"Please, enlighten me."

"Not now."

"Okay…" John don't even try to push to know.

"Do you want the key or not?" Sherlock is still sobbing, his eyes all red, and John feels so guilty and in the same so angry at him.

"No. Yes. I mean, no. I don't know." He's so unsecure.

Sherlock takes it with his right hand. He's doing it slowly. It takes ages to him to hold it in his hand. John observing. His thoughts are just about what to do. He wants to be free, he wants to go back home, but he doesn't want to leave Sherlock at that awful destiny, even though he didn't really care, he was too broken inside. Sherlock had destroyed him, and he doesn't think he realizes that. He wants to wake up, again, just one more time. He didn't need this. But it's real, everything, and now Sherlock is on his feet too, offering him the key.

He takes John's arm, and then his hand. "Here, takes it."

"Taking it doesn't mean I'll let you die, you know that." John whispers.

"You should."

"Why?"

"Because I left you alone. And you didn't deserve it. You deserve someone who loves you, but who can't hurt you as I did."

John is paralyzed. With his wrists bound on Sherlock's fingers, tight. It hurts but he can't speak. Sherlock is watching him with his blue and clear eyes, cleaned by all the hate he was feeling.

"Did you just, basically, say that you… love me?" John is confused. It's what he understood from his words.

"I… I don't love you. I just care."

"Care. Okay. Sure. Right. How could you love me. I'm a fool."

"You're not."

"I always do the wrong deductions."

"It's not your fault."

John frees himself from Sherlock. He takes the key and holds it tight. Sherlock doesn't love him, but he cares. When else did Sherlock care for someone? It's all confused and making the right decision it's impossible. How could he leave Sherlock?

He throws the key away.

"Sherlock, look at me." And John takes Sherlock's chin with his hand. Sherlock's mouth barely open, he's actually barely breathing. He's stuck in the honesty of John's eyes.

"I lost you one, it'll never happen again. I don't care if you hate me, love me or just care. When you jumped I hadn't just lost a friend, I had lost a piece of me, of my soul. You don't even know how much you changed my life in better-"

"Actually I know-"

"Shut up." John closes his eyes hard and sighs. "The point is, I don't care if you're a junkie, or crazy, or fucking heartless, you'll always be _my_ Sherlock somehow and I don't want to lose you."

_I don't want to lose all my memories with you, I don't want to spoil and change them in something horrible like this. I don't want to forget all your cocky little smiles, or your caresses that you think I never noticed when I fell asleep on the couch. I don't want to forget the _look_ or your genius at work. Please don't make my change my mind. And save me. Save me one more time, take me away from a life I don't want to just as the last time. I need it. I need you. _He wants to say all of this, but instead he just thinks, looking at Sherlock deeply, waiting for an answer.

"I don't want to lose you too John, I've just got one friend, don't you remember?"

Saying that their hands hold together and their foreheads touch, with a sigh. John's hands go to Sherlock's nape and they stay just like that for minutes, or hours. They don't care. The only thing that matter now is them. They always belonged to each other, and it doesn't matter if Sherlock doesn't love him, John is sure he does. Because John loves him. He always did, but he's also sure he'll never tell him, he can't, Sherlock would never understand.

Sherlock's long fingers are brushing John's cheek and it's like there's no more air in the room because he forgot how to breathe. Without knowing how, they find themselves laying down on the mattress, hugged and silent.

John falls asleep but Sherlock stays up, watching him, being the guardian of his heart.


	15. Day eleven

**I'M SO SORRY I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN SO LONG GUYS, I AM IT'S JUST SCHOOL AND EVERYTHING.. please forgive me.**

* * *

DAY ELEVEN

When John wakes up it's not like the usual. There's heath near to him, covering his body and he can feel Sherlock's breath on his arm. John is grateful he's sleeping, after the day before he's not entirely sure he wants to talk to him, it was all awkward and strange, and one minute they hate each other and the next he figures out he loves Sherlock. He didn't have a chance with him, he knew that, but he didn't want to say anything wrong to make him go away or make him change his mind.

Sherlock is too unpredictable now, it's dangerous to talk to, and plus there's Moran, and the key. He knew he'd done the right thing, John isn't a cruel man, he never felt that way, and he wasn't starting now.

A little movement come from under, he doesn't know if Sherlock's having a bad dream or whatever but his legs don't stop shake, while his face is tense. John gets away from him, watching him. He doesn't want to wake him, he feels guilty because he knows what it's like having a nightmare, and he just can imagine that's not a simple nightmare, but he can't wake him up, he doesn't feel right. It's like a little revenge on the drugs Sherlock forced him to take.

Eventually Sherlock wakes up on his own. John pretends not to have noticed the fact he was having a nightmare and Sherlock pretends too. They both look at each other for a moment, through the darkness and John coughs, looking away. It was so weird, it was even better after the "shower" than now. Sherlock wasn't a "feeling" kind and John didn't feel like talking about that.

"So…" Sherlock talks first, rubbing his hands and tidying his hair.

"So." John simply answers. The key still where it was, he throws a look at it, and Sherlock notices, following his gaze and sighing when everything is clear in his mind.

"You're regretting it, aren't you?" The detective has miserable eyes and a sad smile, giving up to all his expectations.

"What?" John is not stupid, he knows he's referring at the only thing that could give him freedom. "No, absolutely not. I'm not." John has never been more serious than now. His instinct is telling him to fucking hug Sherlock, holding him, saying to him that everything's okay, that he loves him and he's never going to hurt him. But then his mind reminds him that he's the victim, and it should stay like that. Maybe he's too used being one he just can't recognize when he or another is, it was all the army's fault but that's what he was, he couldn't change his sense of protection for Sherlock, did or did he not save the man's life the first day they knew each other? And Sherlock, despite everything, needed to be saved. Again.

"Good." It's a whisper what comes out from Sherlock's mouth, but it's enough to make John believes him.

"Good."

There's silence, they're waiting for something to happen, like Moran bursting through the door, laughing for the doctor's choice, but he doesn't. Instead there's the sound of Sherlock scratching his leg and John's eyelashes blinking. There's so much silence they can listen to the beats of their own hearts and Sherlock is obviously bothered by John's mind thinking too loud, as usual.

The door opens suddenly, the light make them blind for three seconds or so and then the same old woman is standing there, with two plates in her hands, smiling like a panther who's about to get to her prey.

"Hello boys. Just passed by for breakfast, here." She puts the plates on the floor as she talks, and with a turn she goes away, not adding anything else and closing the door.

There's eggs and bacon for breakfast. They were used to tea but that was enough, because, secretly they were both hungry.

They eat, calmly, not talking, not thinking, just tasting the food, which is actually good. John finishes first and Sherlock doesn't really ever finishes it.

"You should eat everything, you can't ever know how they'll feed us again." John affirms.

"I don't need it."

"Yes, you do. And with all the drug thing you should really, really do it."

Sherlock glances up, his head facing down, but his blue eyes looking up to throw to John something that seems like a "John, don't start" and John gets it. "All right, your body, your decision."

"Thank you."

"Mh." John nods slowly. Now what? There's nothing to do and he's too afraid to ask anything. But luckily for him, Sherlock begins to talk.

"Do you want to know?" He says not too loudly, but clear enough to be well listened. His voice rough and ill, with a little sparkle of that enthusiasm of him.

"Do I want to know what, exactly?" John replies confused, frowning, and Sherlock notices how lovely he is when he looks lost and then damns himself for thinking that.

"My story."

"You mean how you were raised up and how you grew as a sociopath with an obsession for murders.. and murderers? Really fascinating but I can imagine by my own." John didn't mean to give such a bitter answer but he wasn't in the mood to listen to his _story_.

"John I didn't mean that. Why would I even want to tell you about all that? Despite that you _can't_ really imagine what my past is like, I really didn't want to talk about that." Sherlock is almost disappointed from John.

"Oh.. Then what?" He excuses himself with his eyes, somehow too blue and black for being his.

"I wanted to tell… You know what, John? Never mind that, forget it."

"Are you seriously not wanting to show off?" John mumbles between himself.

"So funny, John. I always knew you were such an amusing person, such a pity that I didn't laugh more because of you and your memorable statements when we lived together."

Just the memory of them living together breaks John apart, but he manages not to show how pain it causes to him.

"Sorry if I have still something human in here."

"Sense of humor is a technique of self-defense, it's just that."

"Well, thank you."

John is silent for a moment, he couldn't really pretend to have Sherlock back without that part of him, but he was glad.

He coughs up. "So, what was it? I want to know now, you can't just tell me never mind. You never say that."

"Nothing."

"No, please tell me. It seemed important." John moves forward Sherlock, putting a hand over his to let him know that everything's fine, but Sherlock takes away immediately, startled and surprised. He looks at John with two eyes that he couldn't describe because they were piercing into his soul, as if they were asking him the world.

"What was the story about?" John gets himself together.

"About what happened before the fall." Those words fly like blades right into John's heart. He wanted to know, but he wasn't sure he was ready.

"What happened then?" He's surprised he has all that courage to even ask.

"It was… It's hard to explain, you just listen and shut up until I finish, all right? Because I know you'll have something to say since the start." Sherlock is begging him but his tone his serious and composed, as always.

"All right. I'll shut up until the end." John nods approving Sherlock's decision and scared of what he was going to say. He didn't want to lose all he made up the day before already.

"I fell off that roof, to save you. That's one thing. The second thing is that Jim… Moriarty, was on that roof, as you well know. Third, I had, let's say, a maybe not acceptable number of meetings with Moriarty before of that moment, meetings that you was never aware of, for your own sake."

Sherlock watches him, bending a little his head, to look for a little of understanding from John, who's simply listening to him, not angry, not bothered, not anything, not yet. Sherlock isn't going on, he pauses and sighs, unsure.

"Well?" John wants to know the rest now though, he wants to know why did Sherlock have to save his life. And what Moriarty did.

"Me and him."

"You and him what, Sherlock? I don't understand. I'm not a genius like someone else here. What did he do to you?" John's frowning again, worried. A wisp of his hair is falling on his forehead and Sherlock moves his arm forward putting it away so that now John's face is free and clear. His hand rests a second on his cheek and John pulls against it, to sink in it but Sherlock gets away, and John sighs, closing his eyes.

"After the pool, once you were at work and he just presented at our door." It's heartbreaking how Sherlock refers to everything as it was theirs since ever, _our door_, bur John lets him keep going on.

"I was surprised, but not utterly unprepared. I could imagine something like that, I imagined. Anyway, he came in, we talked. He talked about you John, how much loyal you were, how much it was so clear that I cared about you and I would have never let anything to happen to you. I replied the best I could, to everything he said. Even if he did have a point, I cared about you and I wasn't prepared to let you getting hurt. Anyway, he proposed me a deal. He asked me to work, sometimes, for him, with him, and you would have been safe. I knew it was suspicious, but understand me, I still had a lot of rifles pointed at me. In anyway, the idea somehow fascinated me. Imagine John, working with him, knowing everything behind his genius and his power, what Moriarty really did to be the king of crime."

Sherlock voice raises up with excitement, he gets up and starts talking all over the room, explaining to John, that simply stays sit, without saying a word, with an unreadable face and an empty look. Sherlock doesn't even know whether he's actually listening or not.

"So I did it. For you, at first, but then it just… ended all in a way I never thought of. He was really clever, he was a challenge, he asked me for some simply but complicated works, most of them ended with a dead man, but I only had to trace people down for him, people who really knew how to hide. It was a challenge because he used to complicate things just for me, to watch my mind work, and I was almost proud to prove him I could anything. But then… something happened."

Sherlock stops, he goes forward John. John is really still, he hasn't moved his head, his eyes, he's like a statue. He kneels and now he's facing John. Looking at him. "Are you all right?"

John looks up, his gaze still empty. "Yes, fine. Go on please."

Sherlock isn't so sure he should go forward, but he does, anyways. John has every right in this world to know what happened, even if it could break his heart in pieces or if that would mean breaking all the trust he had in Sherlock before.

"That something.. it was me, saving his life." Sherlock spit it out, as if it was the worst thing he had ever done, the worst sin. John did, in fact, take it like that. A moment before he looked like a soulless man, who doesn't care about anything, who has just learnt how to listen without complains and the next second his face is showing all his shock, his anger, his incredulity.

"You did what?" John wants to yell, he's screaming inside, but all that it comes out it's just a desperate broken voice. He doesn't understand. Saved Moriarty's life. He would never do such a thing, John was a good man, but not so good in the end, so why did Sherlock do that? He thought, one, normally doesn't make his enemy live, that happens just in the movies. It was already enough _having _an enemy.

John, when he'd accepted to listen to Sherlock's story, wasn't expecting any of this. He was expecting some sad stories and he was ready to comfort him, to watch him cry in front of him. How could Sherlock have been so heartless to accept to work with Moriarty? He should have told John, they could have worked it out together, but no. It was Sherlock, and that's why John made him go on with the talking, but now, it was a little too much.

"I saved his life. I know you're probably thinking I went crazy or whatever you're thinking. But I did it because.. it was instinct. We were on a case, together that day. He wanted to follow me, to see how I worked." Sherlock begins to talk as normally as possible again. "I told him I wanted to work alone. I couldn't concentrate with someone who kept telling me what to do, or what I was doing wrong. With someone who wasn't you. But he followed me anyway, and unbelievable but truth, he didn't say a word through the all thing, expect, well, when he screamed for help." Sherlock smirks. There's nothing to smile for, but he does. There's a sparkle in his eyes, that goes off in the moment John catches his look. A cough.

"He had a gun pointed at his temple. There was our man, next to him. I smiled, oh I smiled the entire time. I wanted to see his brain melted under that gun, the bullet flies into his mind. But when I was smiling, I was also thinking of a way to get him out. I don't know why I just didn't get him killed. It could be so simple now. You and I, we could be right in our flat, enjoying tea and you could complain about me complaining about the world. But I.. just kicked the man and saved Jim's ass."

Sherlock sighs, after that. He plays with a curl, falling on his forehead, and then he goes on, even if John is clearly begging him to stop there with his eyes, but no one's looking at him.

"Once we came back, he kept thanking me. He was, I think, really afraid of dying that time. I could see the fear in his eyes. Like an animal in a cage. Like a spider, trapped in his own web. How terrifying. And I saved him."

"That's it?" John asked, interrupting him.

"No. I mean, if you don't want to listen to the rest, it's fine."

"How does all this thing end?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, will I want to kill you after or..?"

"I… don't actually no. Probably yes, if you're a jealous type."

"A jealous type?" He laughs bitterly. "Why? Did you fuck on occasion or he just was so romantic to take you on a date?" He shakes his head, eyes on the ground, still laughing. When the silence fall though, he looks up and Sherlock has never been more serious and terrified.

"What? You did?"

Sherlock turns away, so ashamed he's blushing. John didn't even think Sherlock was enough human to blush. He can't understand. Is that a joke?

"Are you kidding me? You and… What the fuck did I miss?"

"Everything."

Sherlock's answer reminds to John how much of a dick he can be. "So explain to me. The everything."

Sherlock sighs again, shaking his head, not sure if he wants to go on. He can't lose John just now, he's not ready, and John won't forgive him, he knows that. But he owes him that, and so much more. "After that, he just began to treat me differently. He didn't complicate things about cases anymore, but he did call more often than usual. Remember that time where I told you I went at my mother's house? Well, I wasn't exactly telling the truth. He wanted me to go to Paris for a whole week, and with your safety in danger, how could I say no? So I we.."

"Oh stop it." John bursts.

"I said you didn't have to stop me, John."

"No, it's not about that. Just cut it with the "for your safety" because we both know I wasn't counting anymore at that point in your bloody story." John is angry at him. He doesn't like being used as an excuse and Sherlock's love life wasn't any of his business so why worry?

"John, you always count." With those three words, John's anger is gone and all that remains is confusion and pain.

Silence.

"Anyway, I… we went to Paris. It was for a small case, not a thing of a week, but he just kept saying there was no harm in visiting the city, and I'd never been to Paris so I said why not. You're wondering why would I do that since you know when I don't care about something I don't waste my time. The fact is I wanted to know what Jim's point was. And then I found out, and my ability to notice things made everything worse. He, I can say, had a thing for me and he showed it in more than a way."

After that Sherlock's mind is gone and he starts to tell everything John, without thinking about how he bad can be for him, to hear all that.

"First, he bought me a gift, a watch. It was an expensive, new and, let's say special, watch. It had an etching on it. It says…" Sherlock takes his pulse, looks at the watch and goes on "Partners in Crime. Which was fun, even for me. It was. When he gave it to me I felt as if Jim wasn't actually an enemy, just an old friend I couldn't stand but that wasn't that terrible. Is that how you people feel about old friends? Anyway. I thought it was a joke, a bad joke. A weird way, his own way to thank me about saving his life, even if I wasn't expecting anything. The thing is, he didn't stop at that. He started to touch me, little touches, pats on my shoulder or a foot under the table. Yes, if you're asking, we went to dinner a couple of times. It all sounds so wrong now that I'm saying it. I don't think I was entirely myself that week, or when I was with him. The touches became more.. intimate. He began to almost hug me, once he took my hand. I was so shocked. That one time I asked him, I asked what he was doing but he just pressed more, and then he took my wrist, and my pulse… my pulse was racing, and I could feel it. I was scared to death. He began to caress my neck, with the other hand. We were in the elevator to the room, in the hotel, but I felt so exposed anyways. He was so. Gentle. I can't believe, still now, that he could be so human, he could be so different, and I don't know if he was acting or he actually felt what I was feeling. The only thing I'm sure of is I wanted to be with him, and nowhere else, in that moment, it was all perfect. A great mind like his, reduced to a simple act like touch. When the lift opened though he went away, straight to his room, without saying a word. And I stayed there."

Sherlock pauses to check on John. He's talked so much, but John doesn't seem to care.

"Why you stopped? Go on. Just, go on, don't mind me. You said I couldn't say a thing until the very end. So…"

"Is everything all right?"

John throws him a look that seems like death and Sherlock just gives up and goes on with his story, it couldn't be worse than this, or maybe yes, it could.

"That night, he came into my room. He didn't knock. He just slid under the covers and hugged me. Actually hugged me, for a lot of time. I was frozen. All time long, I was thinking about you, for once, and not about him and what he made me feel. About you, because John, I don't know what was about my heart that week but I was feeling so much, and I knew I was betraying you. Anyway, he began to stroke my arm, and then my back. I thought he was asleep, but I was wrong."

Silence for a moment, Sherlock touches John's shoulder. "Do you want me to go on?"

John nods.

"All right." Sherlock squeezes his shoulder one second stronger and then lets go.

"With details. I want to hear this right." John specifies.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and frowns, but does as he's been told.

"His hand felt warm. And delicate. And tender. All things one doesn't expect from him. If I weren't me and he wasn't him, we would have looked like a couple of young people so in love. Because I know you think I don't know what love is, but the truth is I do, at least I can recognize it. His hand kept caressing me, and I kept staying still where I was. But then he went to my hip, teasing me with his fingertips. And there I moved, apparently I'm ticklish. He gripped me in a tighter hug. You can't say it now but he was a hug person." He throws a little melancholic laugh.

"It was there that I… I kissed him."

John eyes went wide open, he can't believe it. Sherlock made the first move. He was expecting something like that by now, but… Sherlock? John was blinded from the view of him kissing Moriarty, with all the times he hoped, in vain, Sherlock could do something even less explicit. A pat on his shoulder, like moments before, when they lived in Baker street, would have made John's day for the rest of his life. And then he kisses Moriarty. John doesn't say anything. He knows he can't be jealous, not now.

"That was such a mistake. Because he took everything he could after that. He started to kiss me, first softly and then with such passion." It seemed like he was trying to suck away all the good Sherlock had in him, all the genius, everything, but Sherlock doesn't say that. He doesn't say even that he enjoyed so much that kiss. He enjoyed every moment of that night, the lust, the desire, the competition, because everything was a challenge between them.

"You can, surely, imagine what happened next." Sherlock coughs out, shuts up and stays there. Waiting for an answer.

"You tell me." John doesn't even speak anymore, it's more like a hiss covering a war inside him.

"John." That comes out sad and impatient.

"Sherlock." John wants to hear it. He doesn't want to believe it, he needs Sherlock to say it out loud. So he can punch him.

"We… fucked."

"Oh, why the hesitation?"

"What?"

"Did you want to say you made love to each other or what? Christ, it seemed like a fucking soap opera. Who knew, the great Sherlock Holmes, a sissy after all. Please, do me a favour. Just finish this story and then… leave me alone." John doesn't have the strength to argue anymore. He's exhausted. He wish he could go home, have a tea and take a nap, but all his hopes are gone when he takes a look around, remembering where he is.

"I thought you were interested in knowing I have feelings."

"Yeah, sure, for a psychopath. How reassuring. Please. Did you enjoy fucking him or it was a great-mind-at-work thing, uhn?"

"I enjoyed." Sherlock yells, feeling his guilt that flies away with his fault.

"Mh. I couldn't care less. What a pity." John is trying to defends himself with anger and an uncaring attitude, but he cared. He cared so much, he loved the man. He was so hopeless, in love with a man, in a fucking prison cell, locked up by another crazy man. He almost wanted to die. Sherlock to die. He just gave up on his freedom for him and he tells John all that things. Despite everything John couldn't expect so much, Sherlock's never been his. He just had to take it and accept.

Sherlock goes closer to him, he's not at the same height of John, face to face. He looks at him in the eyes, deeply. In silence. John's lips are trembling. Sherlock hushes him with a finger. He comes closer. John looks down, he can't bear the view. He knows Sherlock can read him. He can read his thought, what he's truly feeling at the moment. And he doesn't give up. Sherlock stands still, but then his rough and deep voice talks and John shivers.

"I enjoyed. Every minute. Every second. Every touch and every breath. Every time his hand went through my hair, every time I could feel his skin touching my body. Every single part of that night, I enjoyed staying with him. I knew it was a bad thing, and that was the most exciting thing of all. I could see the evil in his eyes, it didn't matter how sweet he was with me with every touch. And he could see how afraid I was, and he liked that, as I did. You know. You know what really made me came that night? What made me want to do something that normal? Do you?" All along John is shaking under the power of Sherlock's voice.

"No." He manages to say.

"That. That exactly." John frowns.

"He never lied to me. Never. He said to me, that night, everything he thought. From the weirdest and sweetest things to the vilest and naughtiest. It was perfect. See, not lying to me, I guess that's my weakness, because every time he said to me something true, something nobody ever sees or admits, I shivered in pain and excitement."

Sherlock traces his finger down to John's throat, John stays still, and watches him grin in a twisted way. He wants to scream. To go away. To back off. He can't. Sherlock's fingertip is now behind his ear, drawing little circles that make him close his eyes.

"You see now, John? You always lie. But you should be careful about it, because I know when you do. Like now. When you say you don't want to know why I came. I bet you always wished to know that secret." His hand now is going up and down from John's ear to his naked collarbone.

"When you say you don't care about what I do. John, stop lying to yourself, if not me. It's not healthy."

John doesn't, can't say a word. He can't move. Not now that Sherlock's hand are all over him, and he'd dreamt of that for years. It was simply "chatting" minutes before, and now he wants to melt under the touch of that man. He knows he lies. He always lied to Sherlock. He couldn't do anything else. He wasn't strong enough, to tell him the truth. John wants everything to end, now. Another big lie, though. And Sherlock can sense it.

Sherlock goes closer. John feels his breath on his own mouth. And Sherlock's hands are now on his neck, then they go away. There are just their faces, their breaths and John's panic.

"Tell me." He caresses John's ear one more time.

"Something truth." He hisses slowly.

"You bastard." John whispers. He grasps at Sherlock wrist, so near to his face, because his hand was still playing with John's ear and he couldn't stand it anymore, it was all too much now.

"I suppose that could do."

Their foreheads touch. John grip loses strength because he's too worried about something else. His lips are slightly apart, and when he feels Sherlock's tongue lightly touching his bottom lip he gives a scared shiver and opens his mouth completely. Their lips aren't quite touching, they're just there, with their breaths bound and their thoughts flown away. Everything's now about waiting for someone to do the first move. John could stay like that forever, hearing his own heart's beat pumping up in head, feeling Sherlock closer than ever.

John's about to back off when Sherlock's tongue touches the corner of his mouth, wet and exquisite. He traces all his way down John's bottom lip, feeling him breaking down. That tongue now becomes a little, discreet snake, entering completely into John's mouth. He moans, loudly, and when their lips touch in a burst of impatience, John can't stand it anymore and moves his hands right around Sherlock's neck, taking him closer, as close as he can, kissing him deeply. It's a rough and not surely sweet kiss, that ends almost as it starts, because Sherlock withdraws, shaking his head, laughing.

"Oh no, John Watson. It doesn't work like this, not now, not ever." And the doctor finds himself with a syringe on his thigh.

"What the he…" Before he can finish he passes out, and the last thing he hears is Sherlock sighing.


	16. Day twelve

**I'm also very sorry for all the mistakes, I hope you'll forgive me.**

* * *

DAY TWELVE

When John wakes up there's someone talking, but it's all confused, he can't understand properly, the drug, or whatever it was has been too strong for him. He can see Sherlock though, right in front of him, standing up, face towards the door, talking… with the woman. Always her. John doesn't know what's so important and fascinating about her, because for him it's a just a weak woman who's following the orders of an insane man.

After a couple of minutes he manages to recognize the sound of Sherlock's voice, he can hear him grinning while he's talking. What's grinning at, John asks himself, because he finds that situation everything but funny. The woman goes away, but she doesn't kiss Sherlock, she hugs him gently, too friendly, it seems as if she was her sister or something familiar enough with Sherlock to gain such a motion.

"Oh, John. Finally." Sherlock is talking to himself, just murmuring those words, but John can hear, and frowns in misunderstanding.

"Finally what?" Sherlock turns with a jerk, he didn't know John was awake and he was startled for a moment. John is coughing his soul out, his eyes are red and his breath is heavy, but he tries anyways to, at least, sit down properly, without any success. Sherlock reaches him quickly, to help him, but John gets him off immediately. "Don't touch me." He says angrily.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Sherlock?" Now John is screaming, he's had enough. "One minute we're clear, we're friends or whatever we are again and the next one you drug me again or you behave in a total different way! I understand you haven't been so well in this period, but for God's sake, choose a side and stay there. You hate me, you love me, you need me or you just don't care? Or better you're just playing Moran's game? Because after all the Jim-is-so-lovely-when-he-tells-the-truth story I'm expecting everything from you! Damn it, I don't know if I trust you anymore. You die but, oh wow, you're alive and I have to accept it. Fine. You drug me but you really don't want to do it. Fine. You almost fucking rape me but it's fine because it was by Moran's rules. And then this, what the hell meant, so, finally? Finally I'll die or finally you'll go away?"

Sherlock has never seen John furious and mad. He's all red in the face, his eyes also red seem to come out for the anger. All his wrinkles are so clear now, John is not even himself, his yell echoes for a couple of seconds among the walls of that little room and Sherlock is surprised and almost afraid, if it wasn't for the handcuffs and the chains John would have probably already hit him. The strange thing, though, is that John can look like a hurricane inside, but outside is still like a statue, and doesn't give any sign of movement. Sherlock looks down, like a nine years old boy, who's done something really wrong.

"Look at me!" John shouts again. He stands up now, and Sherlock turns his head towards the wall, so that John can see his perfect profile in the shadow properly. "You say you like the truth, here's the truth. I've never been so honest with you, Sherlock. The truth, your beloved truth is that I don't, I can't understand you. I can't read you like you do. I can't even talk to you without knowing you're actually listening to me or you just don't care. I can't." He reaches Sherlock's chin with his hand, to turn his head, and Sherlock seems emotionless. John can't say if there's someone in that body or if Sherlock's soul was just long gone. "Look at me, please."

"Finally I can save you."

"What?"

"I never meant to let you down, John. I am what I am. You can't ask me to change. I didn't want to let you down. I've always wanted the best for you. The best and nothing else."

"What do you mean _I can save you?_"

"I didn't want this life for you. When you came into my life, I knew you were different, smarter, more exciting. I like you. I mean, since the start. You're probably the only one who can get that much of attention from me. When everything got complicated, when you started to be in danger, I should have told you, to go away, to find a girlfriend, to have a normal life. God, I'm so selfish. You know I'm not that strong though, that Jim was right. I do have a heart. I wanted you all for myself. And I am sorry."

"You're saying there's a way to get out of here?"

"I…" Sherlock's voice breaks.

"How? Sherlock, how?"

Nobody is listening to the other. Sherlock is trying to get out what he thinks, what he feels for John, but he isn't listening to him. He just got the fact that in some way he can be free. But John's hand is still there, touching Sherlock's chin, and he can feel something wet on his skin. He returns to reality, and finds out Sherlock is crying silently, a tear dropping on his cheek. He's used, by now, to Sherlock's crying, but this time he hadn't even noticed, and he feels guilty, damning himself because he has to stop feeling like it's all his fault.

"You what?" John asks, stroking the tear away and pulls back his hand.

"We can get out, she knows a way. We just have to wait until she tells me something. You can go home, find Mary and ask her to forgive you. I'll just go on my way. Finally." With the last word Sherlock's eyes are straight on John, with a penetrating look that's telling him Sherlock's saying the truth. But John still wants the other answer.

"You. What." Again. What can seem like anger is actually just anguish.

"What? Nothing. So, do you want to get out, don't you?"

"You're never gonna tell me what you wanted to say, right?"

"Maybe one day, when you'll be ready."

"Oh Jesus. What is it?" John never trusted him when something was about him to be ready to know.

"Something forgettable and not important."

John narrows his eyes, peering at Sherlock's look. "Forgettable. All right."

With a back turn Sherlock recovers all his energy and starts talking, about the plan.

"The woman, she know how to get us out. She said she has Moran on a string. It's not so difficult imagining how she got all the information, though. There are men, all over the building, apparently we are in the suburbs of London, in an abandoned area. There's just one exit, no windows, no doors. Just one. She said she can let us pass, but we have to be so quick. Nevertheless, I trust your military's skills are still there somewhere."

"You bet they are."

Sherlock smirks. "She can let us pass, but you have to pretend to be sick, that's why I gave you the drug. I already knew she had something for me, and I could have imagined. Sorry about that, anyway."

"Oh. No… problem, I guess. Listen, about before…" But he's interrupted.

"Once you're going to look very sick, and I'll help if you want, Moran will have to take you down at the nursery. Yes, they have one, she assured me. Once we'll be there I'll have to go to the bathroom near there, and sabotage the tubes of hot water and the boiler. I know what I have to do, the important is that in the moment one will open the sink, well there's going to be a little blast, nothing too serious, but it'll take Moran occupied for five minutes. And then we'll have to be fast. She can get us through all the hallway and we have to hope there aren't too many men out there too. She can, anyway, put down the ones in here."

Sherlock seems so please, but John is not so sure. He giggles, bitterly. "You really think Moran is so stupid? We are never going to do it. It's impossible. There are too many men, in and out. There are cameras. There's no way we're gonna do it. Tell me, are you out of your mind? I thought you were the genius here, can't you think of something better? How are we going to get out of here?"

"Hope, John. And yes, I've been thinking a lot of time about how get out of here, but that's the best we've got. You want to risk it or not? I'm ready to risk it. I want to get out. I want _you_ to get out. I promised you, and you promised to let me help you. If you want to wait and die here, with Moran playing his little, filthy games with you, go on there. But she can help us, that devil of woman wants to help us, and we have no choice, unless, again, you like staying here. I don't. I hate everything of this place and…" Sherlock wants to go on but he stops when John is so close to him, some inches of distance separate them. He's smiling sadly but there's a little sparkle in those red, blue, big and tired eyes.

"Stop talking please. I got it. Take it or leave it. Okay. All right. I'll come. I just don't get how can I look so sick, I mean, stop drugging me, please." He asks giving in to Sherlock's look.

"I said I could help." Sherlock whispers, mumbling shyly. John is getting closer now, and Sherlock's too, without noticing their nose are almost touching. John points a finger on Sherlock's chest, pushing just a little, making his balance swing.

"Yeah. How could you do that?"

Sherlock swallows. "So insecure now, are we?" John giggles, amused. He makes a step back, though, he's turning when a hand grips his wrist tight. He jumps, in surprise. Sherlock's fingers are so cold and are burning on his hot skin, his pulse is racing, again. It happens every time Sherlock touches him, he can't help it. The grip loosens but his fingers stay there, on the surface of his arm. John's breath speeds up, he closes his eyes, his head still turned away.

"You always overrate me when you don't have to, and underestimate me when you can't see how I am actually stronger than you." Sherlock exhales slowly, the air of his whisper on John's neck, making him shiver.

John turns now. They find themselves like two surrendered warriors, watching at each other. There's not anger, no resentment, no guilt and no hope. They're the victims of their own decisions, of their own words. The hand around John's wrist goes up, flying an inch over the heat of John's skin. He rests on his chest, open on his heart. There's just John's shirt to divide them. That, and the heavy, unbearable air between them. John looks up now, but there's nothing in front of him but a man who's got nothing more to lose.

Sherlock can't move his hand, there's an invisible force who's telling him not to move, he knows anything he does, always lets John down. He's tired of that, but John helps him up. He places his hand over Sherlock's. Mouth open, eyes closed, eyebrows frowned, skin blushed. Sherlock's red cheeks make John smile, the most sincere smile John gave at the world in those days.

"I don't think I never underestimate you, you know? You're too much of a genius to me." John's voice isn't loud, actually just the two of them could hear it. Sherlock makes a strange laugh, more like a pant.

"Maybe. And I'm not a genius." His hand squeezes under John's touch. His blood is boiling in his veins, but all that comes out of his body is cold.

"But I did research." A smile on John's face makes them forget everything else. They're not in that room now. They're in their flat, near the sofa, there's a violin gently playing on the background and they can hear Mrs. Hudson's telly too loud. The cracking of the rain, hitting the window, and the wind blows through the drafts. It's not even their flat, it's what they always wanted deeply inside, at least what John ever wanted. To be with Sherlock, cuddling on the sofa, making fun of Sherlock with all the love he had for him. It was too much to hope, even then.

Sherlock's hand frees itself and his tingling fingers make their way on John's chest, when he rests his hand just under his face, on his neck, with his thumb brushing John's jaw. John makes fall his arms to their side and mumbles something.

"What?" Sherlock asks.

"Please." It's more like a soft moan what comes out of John's mouth. His voice breaking.

Sherlock's face comes closer, but they're not touching, except from the hand on John's throat. _Please take me away_. That's what John's thinking, he makes him feel like a teenager but it's his most intense wish at the moment, and he doesn't care because only Sherlock can be his savior. When the tip of their noses touch they shudder, but no one is stepping away. It's a gentle, animal, act, what they're doing. They're both trying to understand if this is right, if they can trust the other won't back off. What if Sherlock isn't strong enough? What if John isn't? What if they both break the moment they go just a bit closer? They had had a glimpse of what that meant, but this was so different. So instinctive, genuine but totally voluntary.

It's too late though, because something in them is too tired to wait, and their lips touch. It's a simple, brushing, almost non-existent touch, but they feel it. A wave of fear runs through them, fear that becomes curiosity and sweet insecurity. They touch again, this time with a little more of bravery. Sherlock's lips are soft, melting down John's. Despite all the cold Sherlock can have in him, his mouth is the hottest thing John ever kissed. Nobody tries to go farther. Nobody dares. They just give themselves little kisses that count like an apology each one.

John's heart is on fire by now, he can't stand another minute without having Sherlock closer. Sherlock understands when John's hand are on his hips, gripping tight, not letting go, as if his life was in danger, even though Sherlock's arms were the safer place John could be. John's hands though don't rest still, they keep moving, provoking a weird effect. He feels like he's being consumed from inside to outside, as if his cold skin was being ripped off. That's the moment when John loses it, because he slides his tongue on Sherlock's lips, thrusting and opening his mouth, rippling Sherlock's thoughts completely and making him moan.

He's savoring the real taste of Sherlock's mouth and wet tongue, smoothing against it, dancing with it. The touches become stronger, more secure, consuming their love within that kiss, the desire they kept hidden all that time. Sherlock's hands are all over John too now, they can really distinguish which part of their bodies they're touching and which part they're not, because John's heart is being removed of everything but lust and love together and Sherlock's mind is being assaulted by John's and his emotions.

Their tongues are gone, there's nothing to stop them now. Keeping twisting and playing, making them groan involuntarily. Sometimes Sherlock's slowly, very slowly, caresses John's lips, from the bottom to the upper, his mouth open so that in the meanwhile he can lick all the way up Sherlock's tongue. It's a thing that makes them go to heaven. The third time Sherlock dares doing that John takes him and pushes him on the mattress, so that he's under him. They share a hot look and then John puts himself astride over Sherlock, measured up to his waist. He stops for a moment kissing him, passing his hands over Sherlock's chest, and then touching him with his warm fingers under his shirt. Sherlock jerks when he feels the touch, but down deep is waiting for nothing else.

There's such a silence in that room, and John's breath is the only thing hearable for Sherlock. John's hands are now brushing over Sherlock's collarbone and he can feel the cold air coming out of his mouth on his neck. John starts kissing him there, and then always further down, till he reaches the shirt. Those kisses were cold though, not hot like John's mouth has been before, and that's because now Sherlock was literally burning, and for that John throws him a deep grin. He begins to strips him, unbuttoning his shirt, one button after the other, slowly and while he's concentrated giving Sherlock's chest a kiss every time there's a bit of more bare skin, he feels his leg bends and stroking John's back. With that he can feel that Sherlock's half hard too. And that really makes him grin, because it was him, it was all about John.

"Don't flatter yourself too much." Sherlock manages to stammer in a jump, because John has just touched with his burning cold fingers, the nearest part of his skin to his pants, touching his hip bones lightly.

"Please, just shut up for once." John whispers breathing on his belly. Sherlock's shirt is now completely open and John arises from above to strip him completely. Now that his chest is behind John's eyes, he can't help but staring, because it's so beautiful, pale and perfect. John always had a weakness for his chest, but never said it. He wish he could watch him forever, he wish he could say that all of that was yours, but Sherlock brings him back from dreamland by brushing his thigh, and John shivers, pointing at Sherlock's abdomen. He's bend on Sherlock, but he's looking at him and Sherlock's hand is caressing his cheek, where he lets himself lean freely, breathing deeply and feeling loved and wanted.

Then he kisses the skin below his head, and licks all his way up 'till he reaches Sherlock's collarbone. Sherlock's back arches and John's hands grasps his hips, making Sherlock's crotch rubs against his chest. From that John moves to his nipples, giving him pleasure with the warm and wet of his tongue, finding out Sherlock is sensitive there, if he didn't already know, he can't remember a thing from the bathroom day. And he's grateful for that, because this is so much better.

With Sherlock's groaning under him, John can feel his pants and trousers are a little too tight now, and he's hard too. He's playing with Sherlock's neck, leaving a mark, when Sherlock's right leg rubs just right against his crotch, and with a loud moan he arches his back upwards and his head falls back because of the friction. A little explosion just happened down into him. The heath is now is flooding his body, reaching his mind, making it hurt for too much pleasure.

Sherlock takes the occasion to grab John by his back and now he's sit under him, clutching him and kissing his chest through the fabric of his shirt, his neck, his jaw, drawing random patterns with his tongue, making John moans even more. He takes his shirt off then, rubbing and hand, once but strong, on his bust. The roles are inverted now, because Sherlock, even though very weak, lifts up John and makes him fall on the mattress on the opposite part of it, and now it's him the one on the top. He can't help himself but touching him, he hangs on John's hair, desperate and wild.

He bends down, kissing and licking every naked part of John's body he can find, from his shoulders to his navel, biting him, making him jump. He licks once, slowly and carefully all the way up John's right and then left hip, and that makes him insane. Their legs are still twisted, and their crotches are touching, scratching, and John arches is back to lean himself into the touch. Sherlock stops kissing his body, and his tongue traces the profile of John's jaw, arriving to his ear and he starts sucking his lobe off, occasionally biting it or licking wetly the most inner part of it, and John whimpers, pressing his hands on Sherlock's back, almost scratching, but he knows Sherlock couldn't care at the moment.

In fact that simple and primitive thing make Sherlock flies right at John's mouth, it's not a kiss now though, it's more like a lips crush because the desire is too much to handle and John starts sucking Sherlock's tongue and when he lets it go he lick his own lips while Sherlock is watching him, with his eyes dark and feline, his pupils are so dilated that all the blue he had is covered by the black of the heath inside him. That heath though, is even about love. All the love is coming out of his mind, floating its way down through Sherlock's kisses and touches.

That wet and perfect and blissing kiss keeps going, their tongues dancing and fighting to make themselves some room into each other mouths. They want to be closer, in any way possible. John keeps grasping at Sherlock, tightly, to not let him go. He now can't believe all of that is happening, he'd wanted Sherlock for so long, all those years of silenced desire, hidden to himself, but probably not to his ex-flat mate. A flash of warmth fills him up, and as if that wasn't enough now Sherlock's hands are on his hips, ready to go down, John knows Sherlock wants to go deeper than that, deeper than a bloody, infinite kiss, but he can't understand what's stopping him.

He realizes maybe he isn't doing because of John. Because he's afraid that could be too much. John breaks the kiss, Sherlock frowns over him, panting. He puts and hand on his cheek, his thumb stroking his pale, soft skin. He nods, lightly, almost undetectably, telling him everything's fine, actually it can't be any better, with sweet dark blue eyes, and Sherlock understands, squeezes his hip in a lovely way.

It all seems so much more tender for a couple of minutes, they kiss each other every now and then, thoughtful and caring kisses, and they keep caressing their bodies like if they were so fragile they could have broken down in a moment. But that tenderness fades when John's tongue touches Sherlock's in a more yearning way. It makes Sherlock moans and the sound of him proving that pleasure just by the touch of him makes John takes control. He starts to kiss him properly, exploring him internally, forgetting how to breathe. He rolls over and now Sherlock's under him, they haven't broken the kiss but John's weight over him makes Sherlock feels complete, safe. When he grips at John's waist he notices he's thinner now, he's weaker too because John tries to stand in that position alone but he can't, without Sherlock holding him up. It makes Sherlock angry. He didn't want John to be sick, not really. He didn't want to see him like that.

"Are you all right?" He asks, he feels as he has to ask, because even if John is at his best right now he doesn't want to do anything wrong. John watches him frowning, he doesn't understand. His mouth still wet from the kiss and his cheek all red.

"Are you?" He asks in return. He hugs Sherlock for two second, gripping him tight and leaning his head on the cavity of his shoulder. But then he comes back up, still looking at Sherlock, wondering what's wrong. He passes his finger on Sherlock's chest, drawing circles over his heart, with a confident look on his face. "Did I do something wrong?" He says, playing with Sherlock's chest hair. He hasn't lost the lust in his eyes. He still wants Sherlock, but he needs to know what's the problem.

"No, John. It's just… we shouldn't be doing this." John sits up, with a jerk, confused.

"Do you want… do you want me to stop?" He's already on his way to step off Sherlock, but a hand grasping at his wrist stops him.

"No. Don't, please. I meant we shouldn't be doing this, here. It doesn't feel right, I've wanted this for so long. And we are in a dirty, little room, with a pervert watching us. I imagine this is not how people normally do… this." He sighs. Still tying John's arm.

"No, I suppose no. I'm tired, though. Waiting, it's always about the waiting. I don't want to wait anymore, Sherlock." He giggles sadly and finishes serious. "But if you don't want this, right now, I'll understand."

"No." Sherlock jerks. "I need you." John smiles, sweetly. But then his eyes become darker than before and his hand frees itself from Sherlock's grip. It slides down Sherlock's chest, and belly, it makes a circle around his navel and ends up touching the top of his trousers. He keeps rubbing at it, and then pops the button open and draws down the fly. He gives a hard stroke, over the fabric, slow and pressing, so that Sherlock groans, leaning into the touch.

"John." He begs. Now John's hand is under his trousers, there are just his pants to divide them, but he rustles Sherlock's shaft, patiently, feeling the heath arising. He moves himself enough to take Sherlock's trousers off. He wants to go slowly, teasing him, licking him just above his lower waist, taking his pants between his teeth, moving them down, to let Sherlock cock's tip flipping out. He uses both his hands to take his underwear off, and now he's facing his naked skin, smelling the scent of pre-come. It's incredible, and intense. John wants that moment to be endless.

He takes the opportunity to look at Sherlock's body in the shadow, a mild light is enlightening him, making him so beautiful and flawless. He asked himself if there was something more wonderful than him. He wanted to touch him everywhere, to make him feel in heaven and hell at the same time. He wanted Sherlock to be his, but despite everything he just keeps staring, because he can't do anything else. Sherlock is watching him too, and a sympathetic smile is growing on his face. In that moment John remembers what he was doing, and looks down at Sherlock's crotch.

He gives it a long stroke, he can feel it pumping under his hand. Sherlock closes his eyes, hissing in pleasure. He goes up, and then down, showing the head. And then again, from the root to the top, shaking and tying, squeezing tight. The tip is all wet and moist, and he takes advantage of that rubbing it more easily, without hurting him. His cock his hard up to hurt, but Sherlock couldn't care less, lost in the pleasure of John's touch. He knew it was just all because of him, his heart beating, no, racing, like his pulse. His eyes shut, because the feeling is too strong.

When John lets go, he opens his eyes widely, though. He frowns, but then he understands, and smiles, waiting to feel even better, and make his mind fall. John, indeed, is on his knees, bend over Sherlock's waist. John's breath over his cock makes it even harder.

John's tongue starts teasing him, gently licking his glans, taking his sweat off. He draws little circles over it, doing whatever he always dreamt to do in his deepest dreams. Sherlock is panting, an hand through John's hair, making him understand he wants more, and John gives up, pleasing him. He gives him a wet lick, from the bottom to the top, swirling his tongue in weird ways in his way. After two or three time he's done that, sending Sherlock over the edge, he takes his cock in his mouth. He covers it all, helping himself moving his entire body, his hands caressing Sherlock's thighs over the inner part. John keeps sucking Sherlock's cock, tasting it, loving that bittersweet sense on his tongue, his tongue that keeps rubbing over all the bare skin it can find and Sherlock can't recognize anymore what is where, because he just feel full of heath and arousal.

John's hands are now on Sherlock's belly, making their way to his chest, when Sherlock grasp tight on of his wrist, pressing because of the tension, and then takes two fingers in his mouth, starting to suck them. John moans, and the vibration in is throat makes Sherlock's cock jerk and he arches his back to get more of that wet sensation. John gives him a little, tiny, light bite making Sherlock screams and release his hand, and John damp finger tips start teasing his nipples. The other hand reaches Sherlock's hip and the his tight from behind and he gets him closer so that he can suck him off better, with more control, giving him everything he needs right now.

Sherlock is screaming, loudly, and nobody cares, because the more Sherlock screams, the more John lets himself go. A couple of seconds before Sherlock could come, John takes his mouth away and licks his cock fully, making it whimper and then he stops, with the tip of his tongue brushing and hovering over the top of his shaft. His lips totally wet, hot and swollen, a bit of fluid of Sherlock's almost come staying between John's mouth and his skin. His eyes are the ones of a predator now, and Sherlock is his beloved prey. He wants him to come, yeah, but not like that. He wants to go slow, to tease him until he will go out of his mind, until he can't distinguish the difference between he and John. He wants to be with him, over him, in him. And never go away.

Sherlock makes a loud groan of annoyance, raising his head up to see what was the problem, but when his eyes meet John's he forgets about anything else, and glancing at his mouth he reaches him with his own and they kiss passionately, almost with rage. Sherlock can feel his own taste while he's kissing John and he makes and since he can get there now, he gives John's dick a rough and hard stroke, making him moan under his lips, and attacking him, Sherlock pushes John down and quickly undresses him. They're both naked now, but Sherlock doesn't stare at John, not now. He doesn't have the time, he doesn't want to have the time.

They're both on their knees now, facing each other, hands everywhere and lips on their necks. John isn't sure what they're doing, but Sherlock's cock is still wet from his mouth and they both have their shafts pressed between their bellies, and John is harder than ever. Sherlock grips him tight now, he pulls his hair, rubs his legs, stroke his cock, all in a rush of lust and want. Then it's again Sherlock's turn to be on top and shoving John down he touches him everywhere. His mouth rests on his throat, marking him and then licking both his ears while his hands are around his neck, taking his face and getting him closer. He wants John to surrender under him. John is groaning and whispering words he probably doesn't even know he's saying, but despite that there's still silence around them. They're so wrapped up in themselves that nothing else matters, it could crush the floor under them but it would always be them, together.

John is so hard it's painful. He needs Sherlock to touch him, or he'll do it himself. His own hand goes down to wrap it around his cock, but Sherlock notices it and stops him immediately. He whispers a no and John takes his hand back, begging him with his eyes to help him there. Sherlock is good, and rubs his thumb tip over John cock's head, giving him a bit of satisfaction and pleasure, but it's not enough. His cold hand grasp John's hot one and with him he strokes John's stick. John moans and jerk because then Sherlock is breathing over the head but not quite touching, making him waiting in agony.

John licks his lips, loudly, and Sherlock licks his own two fingers. With them wet he goes over John's balls, caressing them, teasing, until he's over his hole and a little touch makes John jump, grasping at Sherlock's hair. He looks up, seeking for John approval, but John is insecure, so Sherlock licks again his lips and then rubs his tongue over his cock all over again, without skipping any single part, and John arches his back for the stimulation, then nods. He wants that. He wants Sherlock.

Before fingering him, Sherlock bends over John mouth, kissing him, wrapping their soft and warm tongues together and with a loud last kiss he makes his way down. His fingers are not wet, not anymore, so he licks them up again and places them over John ass' hole. John shivers and hisses, and Sherlock puts on the first finger. John is tight, and also panting, but with a squeeze at Sherlock's arm he makes him understand he can bear more than that, so Sherlock puts another finger in it. John is over the world now, Sherlock's fingers are long and perfect, just what he needed, what he could bear at the moment, they were Sherlock's, after all. John's mouth is open but not a sound comes out of it, he's just praying Sherlock to move with his frantic eyes. Sherlock starts moving, going deeper every time he takes his fingers out and then re puts them on. When he twitches them, John almost screams for pain and inebriation and Sherlock gently rests a hand over his belly, bending himself and kissing softly the pre-come off John's cock.

When John is almost coming, Sherlock withdraws, as John had done with him minutes before. They watch intensely at each other, and Sherlock eyes can just mean that he wants to be inside him and John is wishing for anything else. Sherlock puts his legs at John's sides, keeping gently, almost not touching though, John's shaft.

"Wait." John pants. "Wait, we can't do it like this." His head falls over the mattress and points over the little desk.

"Oh, right. Because this time nobody wants to get hurt." Sherlock giggles, standing up and going towards the table. John watches his perfect shaped-body moving and being amazing and keeps for himself all his thoughts. Sherlock opens the drawer and find the lubricant and the condoms. He takes the lubricant confident but when the condoms are in his hands he turns to look at John.

"Do you want to use them?" He asks awkwardly.

"You tell me."

"I'm clean, if that's your problem. I was a junkie. I am… but I'm clean, I know that."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I checked."

"When?"

"Do you want me to fuck you with one of these or not?" Sherlock says shaking the condoms. John frowns, but then smile seductively.

"Without."

"Good." He takes the lubricant and comes back to John.

He settles between John legs once again, but before doing anything he kisses him, deeply and gently this time, as if the time didn't exist and they were angels on a cloud loving themselves without any kind of trouble, with their hearts full of love and bliss. Sherlock breaks the kiss first and a hand places on John's cock, pressing over it but with attention.

"I'm sorry." John's breathing hard, again, because of Sherlock's touch. "About the bathroom thing, you know." He's all red in the face, not sure that's the right time to apologize. Sherlock smirks and then hushes him, reassuring him everything was all right.

John feels Sherlock sitting up and taking the lubricant, opening and spreading the oil over his fingers. When he fingers him again, John can feel the cold of the substance and the pleasant sensation when Sherlock enters is, again, unbearable. Sherlock, once in him, twist his fingers, again and John jerks, but now he's ready to take it all, and Sherlock gets back and settles himself.

John sits up, though. He takes the lubricant while Sherlock is watching him curiously and when the oil in his hand takes Sherlock's cock and wets it, stroking it and making Sherlock moans. He starts kissing his chest, his collarbone, his neck and his jaw, licking him slowly, but with no hesitation. Sherlock almost forgets what he was doing, but he finds himself again and pushes, with a hand on his chest, John on the mattress, smiling hot.

Sherlock's cock is wet and perfect now, and he settles himself over John's hole, and at the touch John whispers a _Sherlock, please. _They're both so hard and turned on, Sherlock can't wait anymore and pushes inside. The first thrust is painful and agonizing for John, he suffers in pleasure, groaning under Sherlock, who's now bend over him, his nose touching his jaw. Sherlock stops, when he reaches the deepest part he can get, waiting for John to be fine. It takes a while but finally he nods, saying to go on silently, and Sherlock does move, and John is so tight that when his cock goes back, through his way, Sherlock finds himself screaming in pleasure, and John grasps tight at his back, begging more with his panting.

"You do remember that I can help you looking sick, right? Maybe I can do a little more than that, soldier." The last word makes John laughs in pain, but he manages to answer to that.

"Yes. Yes, please. My bones are all already broken, I think. So, yes. Finish your job and make me sick." John isn't entire sure of what is saying, the only thing he know is that he wants Sherlock to move, faster, harder. To go deeper than that, to make him come. But it's hard to be satisfied, because Sherlock is doing it on purpose, to be slow and teasing him. The head of his cock is again at the entrance of John's hole and Sherlock's drawing up and down over it with his wet pre-come and glans, promising John he'll do everything with that.

John's eyes are close, shut entirely. He feels a hand over his cock now, Sherlock's rubbing it but all his attention his now on John's ass because he thrust inside him again, harder now, and John is completely overwhelmed with the feeling. He can't even think right in that moment, expect why the hell the never did this before, because he's pretty sure Sherlock's enjoying it as much as him. John arches, leaning over Sherlock's weight and length. He's tired of waiting now though, he wants it, he wants it all, he's not sure he can resist any longer, and Sherlock too.

He starts thrusting harder, for real now, and every rub sends John over the edge and Sherlock screams two or three times. He keeps pushing into it, going deeper to feel John everywhere around him, to complete him. Their bodies are wrapped together in a river of love, lust, desire, sweat, pre-come and tears, because John is actually crying for the pain and the thing that he's enjoying it so much. They're silent tears, and Sherlock licks all them off.

They're both on the edge now, Sherlock's cock is pumping up, his veins are beating under his skin and John is twisting roughly against Sherlock. Hands are over John's thighs now, opening him wide, so that Sherlock's now has all the control it takes to thrust the last time into John and come. It's all sort of blur, when they simultaneously come, the fluid squirts out of John and he screams gripping Sherlock and planting his nails on his skin. Sherlock keeps thrusting one or two times before stopping shaking and when he takes his shaft off John he feels cold and incomplete, unsafe, even though the next moment is in John's arms, settling himself near the doctor. They both take their time to start breathing again properly. John's face is all red, he's still panting after a couple of minutes when Sherlock is calm, and after having cleaned him, he's gently, very gently caressing John's chest, loving him with all the love he ever had.

"How do I look?" John asks after a while Sherlock's in his arms, cuddling. A thing John never thought Sherlock could do. But he is, so he's happy, and his heart is warm with the sensation of him next to him, brushing his skin.

"You are a beautiful woman, John." Sherlock jokes, and it's the last thing John is expecting from him, but they laugh, as they'd done at Buckingham Palace. They're the detective and his short friend again, for a couple of minutes, nothing ever happened.

"Who are you and what have you done with my Sherlock?" John asks giggling.

"Your Sherlock?" He answers, whispering.

"Well, you never joked about anything, it's just strange." John excuses himself, holding Sherlock a little tighter.

"Yeah. Anyway, you look amazing, John. Really. And, I'm sorry, but not sick at all, just happy. Despite everything."

"You deduced me right, well done." He laughs and then falls asleep because he might not look sick but Sherlock is tiring.

And just before falling asleep he hears Sherlock saying something sighing. "I… No nothing, it's still forgettable."


End file.
